


Undeniable Bonds

by nightrose



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Dom/sub, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Soul Bond, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 26,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25445335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightrose/pseuds/nightrose
Summary: Grantaire has spent his whole life waiting to meet the dominant on the other side of his bond. There's just one problem with that: Enjolras, the fierce, beautiful man he's instantly in love with, wants to burn the whole system to the ground. He definitely doesn't want Grantaire.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 304
Kudos: 264





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some might ask "Didn't you just start posting another long fic this week?" And I might answer "Uh, it's the quarantimes, what else am I supposed to do? Work on editing my novel? Do my real job? No thanks!"
> 
> This, unlike most things, has a planned beginning/middle/end. I'm estimating 5 chapters for now.

Grantaire doesn’t have a lot going for him, but he’s a _really_ good submissive.

Purely in theory, of course. He’s never actually played with anyone. He never would—he’s one of those old-fashioned sorts that’s waiting to meet his soulmate. He does quietly believe that makes him better than the people who play casually with whoever they feel like, even though he knows that’s judgmental and shamey and he would never actually _say_ it. Really, it’s just a personal choice. He feels better not giving that part of him to anyone except his soulmate, the person on the other side of the bond he’s been able to feel, deep inside his mind, since he was thirteen.

He keeps that quiet, too. Eponine knows he hasn’t been with anyone else. She teases him for it all the time. And yeah, okay, he’s a twenty-six year old virgin. It’s a little unusual. Most people have either found their soulmates by then or they’ve decided it’s not worth waiting. Eponine has even asked him, sometimes, when things were really rotten in his head and he just wanted a break from having to live with his own thoughts, if he wanted to play around platonically, just so that he could drop and she could get some practice for whenever she meets her real partner.

He’d said no. Of course he’d said no.

Because as much as he sometimes wants to submit to someone, _anyone,_ what he wants far, far more is to be able to offer everything up to his soulmate, untouched.

It’s an old-fashioned way of thinking, he knows. Probably his soulmate wouldn’t mind if Grantaire came into their bond with some experience. Maybe he’d even prefer that. But Grantaire doesn’t _want_ that with anyone but him.

Maybe it’s foolish. Maybe it’s naive to put so much of himself into a relationship with someone he’s never even met. Someone he has no idea _how_ to meet, when he’s honest with himself. Someone who is nothing more than a presence in his mind, a steady reassurance that there is something more for him than his empty life, that one day he’ll be loved the way he always wanted to be.

And yeah, maybe he could go out looking for that. Maybe he doesn’t just have to wait for his dominant to find him through their bond, as is traditional.

Probably whoever wants him won’t be that traditional after all.

But, listen, the thing is, he’s not good at very much. He’s a college dropout, working four jobs just to get by. He drinks too much, sometimes much too much. He’s obnoxious and he talks too much and he isn’t slim or pretty or any of the other things that subs are supposed to be.

All he really has to offer his soulmate, when he meets him (and, for whatever reason, Grantaire is absolutely sure it’s a _him_ on the other side of the bond) is his absolute devotion and perfect obedience. It’s what he dreams about at night, when he can’t sleep. Often his fantasies are about brutal, pure sadism—not because he’s much of a masochist (he isn’t) but because he wants to endure that, wants to be made to endure that, for his soulmate. He wants to sleep at his feet. He wants to bring him his meals in bed. He wants to lavish him with pleasure and care and every good thing. He wants to give himself up to him, as completely as he’ll be allowed to.

Even before he’s met him.

It’s all he has to offer. Himself. He knows it’s not very much, but if he can’t be more worthy, he can at least give himself up entirely.

Perhaps not a healthy thought, but a true one.

And even though he hasn’t met his soulmate, he has no doubt that he deserves everything Grantaire can give him and more. He doesn’t know much about the person on the other side of the bond, though he gets the sense that their bond is especially strong. He can’t feel an exact direction of where he might be (or he probably would have abandoned tradition and followed it right to his doorstep), but he gets flashes of intuition andemotion, enough that he thinks he knows a little bit about the man that he was born to be with, born to give himself to.

What he knows is this: the person is male. It’s just a sense he gets. He’s definitely dominant, which is a relief. Grantaire would try to make it work if they were both submissives, or if his soulmate was neutral, but it would be difficult, given how strong Grantaire’s own drive toward submission is. Luckily, Grantaire consistently feels dominance coming through the bond, as strongly as it does in his fantasies.

His soulmate is around Grantaire’s own age, since they began feeling the bond around the same time. He’s somewhere in Paris—the bond gives him that much direction, although no more than that, nothing he can follow all the way to a meeting. He’s strong and confident, with a ferocious temper interspersed with tender bursts of affection for someone or something (not, Grantaire prays, another partner. It’s not unheard of for people to settle down outside of the bond, and that might explain why his dominant never came looking for him, never tried to follow their bond to find him… but there could be other reasons, like that he isn’t getting a direction either, and he’s not blocking the bond, and presumably he would if he were in love with someone else. So Grantaire maintains hope).

Hope is what he has. It’s all he has. Hope, and love for whoever is on the other side of the bond. His strength and determination, his courage and conviction—without ever speaking to him or seeing him, Grantaire knows every one of those things, knows what kind of man he is, and adores him for it. He’s so grateful that his bond leads to someone so amazing.

There isn’t much about Grantaire that deserves someone like that, but he is resolved to be a really, really good submissive. He does everything he can to get ready for that.

He practices postures, alone in his room at night. He tries to kneel for a little bit every day, getting comfortable with it, imagining how good it would feel if he were here because his dominant wanted him to be. Some of the other postures feel awkward—it’s embarrassing presenting himself when there’s no one to present _to—_ but he does it anyway, telling himself that it’s something he can suffer through for his dom, something he can give him even before they meet.

He reads pretty obsessively about dominance and submission. Everything from old ‘50s manuals about how to be the perfect house sub to zines by radicals who think the whole system should be burnt to the ground. He learns everything he can about all the different ways soulmates can fit together, and dreams, and hopes.

It’s a private part of his life—his closest friends don’t really get it. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta have a very rare sort of bond, between all three of them, but they’re all three of them neutrals, neither dom nor sub, so, though they can understand wanting to please a partner, they don’t have the same kind of drive that Grantaire does, to make himself perfect, to make himself good. They have their own problems to deal with, with people assuming that one of them must be in charge, or that their bond can’t be really between all three of them andone of them must be “just” a partner, not a real mate. Grantaire doesn’t like to trouble them with his own worries that he’ll never find his partner, or that he won’t be good enough when he does. And it would be embarrassing to tell them about all the things he tries to do to make himself good enough for that.

Eponine is a dom, and she hasn’t met her soulmate, and she spends most of her time roasting Grantaire for being so devoted to someone he hasn’t even met. He quietly suspects that the only reason she cares _so_ much is because, deep down, she’s just as passionate as he is about being the best they can be for their future partners. She’s certainly taken enough classes in everything from light bondage to singletail, even when she was sleeping on Grantaire’s couch because she didn’t have rent money, to give him the strong impression that she actually does want things to be perfect when she meets her soulmate.

Which, it won’t be. Not for Eponine, and not for Grantaire eitther. Grantaire isn’t so incredibly naive that he thinks that just because they’re bonded, everything will instantaneously be perfect when he meets his soulmate. There will be disappointments, of course. (He hopes his soulmate won’t be disappointed in _him._ It’s not supposed to work that way—the bond is supposed to mean that his soulmate is drawn to him in a way that’s too strong for anyone to resist, butif anyone could have the shitty luck to be the exception to _that_ rule, it’d be Grantaire.) There will probably be fights—heknows himself too well to think that the fact that he’s a good submissive, that he tries to be a perfect one, means he’s always going to yield. He likes running his mouth too much. Hopefullyhis dom will find that amusing, rather than annoying. Hopefully, he’ll find something to appreciate in Grantaire’s body, inspite of his general lack of slenderness and prettiness.

Hopefully, he’ll love Grantaire, the way Grantaire already loves him. It’s the secret wish he builds his life around.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the very kind response to the first chapter! I hope everyone enjoys the fated meeting.
> 
> You may notice the chapter count has gone up...

Grantaire frowns at Joly, which he doesn’t do often. It’s not easy to be mad at his cheerful friend, but he is not amused by this particular jest.

“A social justice club?”

“Yeah.” Joly grins. “I actually think you’ll really like it. Bossuet and I have been having a great time. This guy in my med school class, Combeferre, he’s one of the three leaders, and he invited me along. He’s pretty terrific. You might really like him.” He says that last with the wink that lets Grantaire know that this Combeferre is a dom. Joly is always trying to set him up, which is somewhere between endearing and aggravating. “And besides, Courfeyrac—that’s his soulmate—usually pays for everyone’s drinks.”

“You should have led with that,” Grantaire says. “If there are free drinks, I’ll be there.”

Joly laughs at that. “All right, Grand R. It’s at 6 at the Musain. Be on time for once, Enjolras hates lateness.”

“Enjolras?” What a beautiful name. Just saying it puts a smile on Grantaire’s face.

“He’s the one who’s really in charge, even among the triumvirate of the three of them. He’s pretty amazing. Sort of has a scary-hot vibe going on. Which, come to think of it, might also be your thing.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, although Joly is completely right. “You’ve already convinced me. You don’t need to give me the dossier of every dom in attendance to talk me into it.” And besides, Grantaire is committed to waiting for his soulmate—not that anyone else needs to know that. He’s not interested in anyone but his soulmate, no matter how amazing and/or attractive and/or dominant and/or scary-hot they may be.

In spite of his big words about not caring about any dom that isn’t his soulmate, he does spend a _little_ time getting dressed up for the meeting. If he’s going to meet new people, he wants to make a good impression, after all. He finds a non-paint-stained pair of dark jeans that fit him reasonably well, and a black button-up shirt. He leaves the top few buttons undone, so that his throat—both the absence of a collar, and the possibility of one—is clear. It’s one of the most reliable ways to signal his designation, although honestly most people don’t have a hard time clocking him when they first meet him.

He runs a hand through his dark, curly hair and looks over himself in a mirror. Well, he’s not good-looking, and he never will be. His nose has been broken twice, thanks to a most unsubmissive interest in boxing as a hobby. He’s somewhere on the line between muscular and chubby, not curvaceous or slender. And he has always had bad skin, no matter how many products he attempts. There’s very little to admire there.

He’ll never like his own looks, but he can tolerate himself, which is the best he can hope for. That, and a soulmate who will one day do more than put up with him—who will appreciate him for who he is, as incredibly unlikely as that, admittedly, sounds.

The alarm he’d set on his phone buzzes, breaking him from his reverie. If he wants to arrive at this meeting on time, he’d better get going.

He’s been to the Musain before. It’s a nice little café in the Fourth, not as expensive as a lot of places in the neighborhood are, not grungy like the ones closer to the big university. They have decent food, all cooked in-house, and the drinks are both plentiful and free.

Joly and Bossuet are both already there—Musichetta isn’t with them, maybe because she’s working, maybe because she’s way too sensible to let her adorable but ridiculous bondmates talk her into coming to this particular waste of time. They fall all over themselves to introduce Grantaire to everyone in the room.

Who all seem to be unreasonably attractive, and nauseatingly happy, bonded couples. Great. Exactly who Grantaire wanted to spend his lonely, single evening with.

Grantaire swallows back a little bit of disappointment. Like most people who haven’t found their soulmates yet, every time he goes into a new room he has to deal with the secret, silent hope that he’s going to find his soulmate here. But he would know, of course, if his soulmate were here. He may not have a particularly strong sense of direction—every bond is different that way—but his emotional pull towards his soulmate is fierce. If he were in the room, Grantaire would know about it at once.

Still, his daydreams are no reason to be rude to the people Joly and Boussuet are so eager to introduce him to.

He meets Combeferre and Courfeyrac first. They’re the leaders, the two in charge, along with Enjolras, who is apparently going to join them, as he usually does, at the absolute last minute, since he’ll be coming from some sort of hyper-virtuous volunteering situation. The two of them seem like enough to command any situation Grantaire can think of, though. Combeferre is, as Joly had promised, a tall, good-looking man who radiates dominance. He’s black with short-cropped curly hair and kind brown eyes. He wears thick glasses and a white button-up shirt, with the sleeves pushed up to reveal his gorgeous, intricate sleeve tattoos.

It would be an intensely attractive look if not for the fact that he’s obviously attached at the hip to Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac is shorter, with golden skin and straight dark hair. Grantaire notices the way he and Combeferre lean in towards each other instinctively—soulmates, evidently—though, as obviously dominant as Combeferre is, Courfeyrac has no clear signs of designation. He isn’t wearing a collar or even a token, and his clothes are both elaborately fashionable and carefully neutral. None of that seems as significant, though, as the huge grin on his face as he greets Grantaire. “It’s so nice to have you here! Joly and Boussuet have told us all about you, and we’re so, so excited you decided to come! I heard this isn’t necessarily your type of thing, exactly, but we’re delighted to have you and we hope we’ll win you over! And if there’s anything that would make you more comfortable here, just let me know, okay? Our group can be a lot at first but there’s nothing better than a new face.”

The weirdest thing about that little speech is that Courfeyrac obviously means every word of it.

Near their table sits the only unattached member of the group. They also seems to be flagging neutral, although that might just be the bizarre way that they’re dressed—they wear a bright orange sweater cut into a crop top, teal-and-magenta plaid shorts, and purple Doc Martens. Their long blond hair is in one braid. “I’m Jehan. I love your eyes. They’re the color of the clouds above the sea on a rainy day, have you ever noticed that?”

Grantaire blinks. “Um. Can’t say that I have.”

“Oh. Well, you should appreciate them more. They’re beautiful. And so are you, I can tell.” Jehan turns back to the notebook they have been scribbling away in.

Next, he’s introduced to Feuilly and Bahorel. They’re obviously a more typical dominant and submissive couple from the way they present themselves, though their roles are flipped from the stereotype one might expect looking at them. The red-haired, slender Feuilly flags dominant, with a confidant bearing, and his hand, as he shakes Grantaire’s, is calloused enough to be rough. His soulmate, Bahorel, wears a thick black leather collar around his neck, an unmistakeable sign that he’s claimed as a submissive. He’s also almost seven feet tall and bristling with muscle. His smile is friendly, though, and Grantaire likes him at once.

“You do martial arts?” He asks, feeling Grantaire’s firm handshake.

“Used to. I box a bit now, and fence.”

Bahorel grins. “ _Awesome._ We’ll have to hit the gym together sometime.”

Grantaire is pretty sure that Bahorel could bench-press him if he wanted to, but he doesn’t object. Actually, it seems like it would probably be a lot of fun, even if he’s also completely sure he’d be sore to the point of tears afterwards, and not in a fun, sexy way.

The only typical couple in the room are Cosette and Marius. She’s a strikingly beautiful domme ( _everyone_ in this crowd seems to be outrageously good-looking), with long blonde hair that tumbles free over her shoulders and perfect porcelain skin. She’s wearing a long-sleeved pink dress covered in a cheerful pattern of yellow flowers.

At her feet is her submissive, Marius. He’s absolutely covered in freckles, and blushes as he looks up at his domme. She nods slightly, giving him permission, and he rises to say hello to Grantaire.

He babbles, awkward and charming, and Cosette smiles fondly at him. Grantaire is seized with a jealousy so intense his stomach turns. All he wants is what they have, to be treated like something precious, to have a dominant who’s proud to have him kneel at their feet…

Maybe one day, he reminds himself. He can’t do much other than to hold on to that hope.

“So yeah,” Joly says, pulling Grantaire over to a table at the side so they can’t be quite as easily overheard. “That’s everybody. What do you think?”

“I think that’s the weirdest collection of people I’ve ever met in my entire life,” Grantaire says fervently. For one thing, something like 98% of the population ends up in typical dominant and submissive soul-bonded pairings, while here they seem to be the minority, between Jehan and Grantaire as singles, Boussuet and Joly’s unoriented relationship, and whatever it is that Combeferre and Courfeyrac have going on. “But I like them a lot.”

“I think they’ll like you too. I’m really glad we talked you into it,” Boussuet teases.

“Me too. Now, what do we actually do here? Do we just sit around and drink and gossip, or—“

“Oh, you’ll see,” Joly says. “When Enjolras gets here… he’s a pretty amazing speaker. He pretty much leads the group. Usually he has an issue he wants to talk about, he shares his thoughts, and then we debate it. Sometimes we talk about a plan, what we’re going to do concretely to change the problem, sometimes we just discuss. It’s fun. You’ll like it.”

“I do like to argue with other people’s idealism.”

“And either way,” Boussuet adds with a grin, “We drink.”

“That, I really like. Shall I go get us a round?”

“It’s on my tab!” Courfeyrac chimes in from across the room.

Grantaire is just getting back with wine for all of them when the door opens.

“Must be Enjolras,” Joly says.

Grantaire turns towards the cracked door, ready to get a glimpse of the famous Enjolras.

A man steps into the room. He’s tall, easily a foot taller than Grantaire. He has perfect, almost _pretty_ features, like a classical statue come to life. His lips are full and red, set in a neat line. His blue eyes are piercing and _beautiful,_ so intense that Grantaire at once has to look away and can’t bear the thought of ever taking his eyes off this man. His long, golden hair is in a neat ponytail behind his head. He’s slender, his build hidden behind a red leather jacket and well-fitting skinny jeans, and he wears black combat boots that Grantaire aches to kiss. He’s easily the most physically attractive person Grantaire has ever seen in his entire life, but it’s not just that.

Dominance radiates off of him like a force, as does concern, and passion, and _love—_ not for anyone in general, Grantaire feels it, but for everyone in this room. For all of his friends. He’s not quite smiling as he enters the room, and those gorgeous eyes are serious, but Grantaire can feel how he’s feeling, feel that, in addition to all the passion and all the power, there’s a deep core of tenderness to this man.

Grantaire wants to fall to his knees at his feet and kiss his boots, _worship_ him. He wants the tie that’s hanging loosely off the man’s neck around his wrists, keeping him in place, pushed between his teeth, keeping him quiet, around his eyes, blinding him to anything except his place. He wants those strong, perfectly sculpted hands on him, putting him in his place, making him into what he was always meant to be, making him _good._ He wants, more than anything else, to earn a warm, approving smile from those lips, from those perfect eyes. He wants to make him so, so happy, because he _deserves_ every minute of Grantaire’s worship, everything that Grantaire has to give him.

Grantaire knows the second he lays eyes on him.

This is Enjolras.

This is his dominant.

This is his soulmate.

And Grantaire is already hopelessly in love with him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire meet at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry y'all

His body acts before he can think. That’s what he gets for spending so many years carefully training postures, he thinks ruefully, as he feels his knees buckle, bringing him down the floor.

The posture is called Offering. It’s a modified version of the more common Presentation posture, at once less explicitly sexual (which Grantaire is quietly grateful for, since they are, after all, in a room full of people) and much more intimate.

Grantaire kneels, his forehead pressed to the ground, his arms outstretched, palms up in front of him. It’s a pose that says _I’m yours—_ not in the physical way of a kneeling or standing Presentation, but in a far more intimate way. Grantaire is offering himself up as a gift, body and soul, and he waits.

He waits to see if Enjolras will accept him.

For a long time, there is absolutely no sound in the room. The whispers and laughter and boisterous conversation comes to a halt. Grantaire can hear his own heartbeat thudding in his chest. He can hear _Enjolras’,_ all the way across the room. This silence is almost comforting as he waits, and waits, and waits. He waits to hear those boots making their way across the room, the rushed exhale of Enjolras’ breath, maybe even the sound of his own name on Enjolras’ lips.

Instead, the silence is broken by the sound of papers being shuffled. And then by Enjolras’ voice.

It’s everything Grantaire would have imagined it being—rich and full and _powerful._ That voice sends shivers down his spine, leaves him aching with want to do anything it commands him, to earn words of praise or simply _notice._

He’s so entranced by that voice, so intent on keeping his posture perfect, that it takes him a moment to even begin to understand what Enjolras is actually saying. When he does, his heart stops.

“Friends, both old and new, thank you so much for joining me here today. It is an honor that you are willing to share your valuable time with us, and to listen to my words.”

He is so measured, so humble. He has no reason to me. Everyone in the world would be lucky to be allowed to hear him.

“I’m taking on a difficult topic today, one on which I know many of my dear colleagues here will disagree. I ask that you hear me out and let me speak my piece, and then, as is our custom, we will join in what I expect will be a particularly lively debate.”

Grantaire is having a hard time imagining circumstances under which any sensible person could disagree with this man. The force and power of his voice are such that Grantaire thinks anyone should find themselves eager to agree with anything he said. He could tell Grantaire to throw himself off a bridge into the Seine, and Grantaire would not only do it, he would be pleased to agree that such an action was only right, only necessary.

“Today I will be speaking on the matter of relations between dominants and submissives in our society.”

His way of talking is so simple and frank. He does not rely on any rhetorical flourishes. He simply speaks as he thinks, honest and true, and it’s so compelling that Grantaire has forgotten about everything except the power of his voice. He’s barely conscious of his own position, of the fact that he’s kneeling and exposed like this in a room full of people. All he can hear, all he cares about, is the intoxicating magic of Enjolras’ words.

“I will begin by acknowledging that some of my dearest compatriots and allies have urged me not to speak on this topic. The relationship of soulmates to one another is no matter for politics, they have said. It is a private thing, between two—or more—soulmates, and no one else should interfere or cast judgment. I hear the wisdom of this line of thinking, for it is a common one. And I know that any criticism of the love that soulmates bear for each other will fall hard on us, for there is little our society holds more dear than this bond.”

Grantaire doesn’t understand. He’s intoxicated and enchanted by the power of those words, but he doesn’t understand them.

“However, when one has labored for justice and equality as long and as fiercely as I have, one starts to see a tragic and inevitable through-line. We cannot defeat inequality in our society, my friends, if we cannot defeat it in our bedrooms and in our hearts.”

It sounds almost like Enjolras is saying that he thinks there’s something _wrong_ with dominance and submission. But that can’t be right. Grantaire knows that can’t be right, because his entire heart and soul is telling him that he was put on this Earth for no reason other than to submit to this man. Enjolras can’t be rejecting that without even giving it a chance. It’s not possible.

“We live in a world that teaches half of its populace to obey and serve without question, and teaches the other half that they are the rightful recipients of such service. Why, then, are we surprised when violence is rampant? When so many of the so-called natural submissives are abused? When these systems of control leak out beyond the container we have decided to keep them in—the shallow trappings of consent and desire with which such cruelties are justified—and into all our dealings with one another? I tell you, this is not just unsurprising. It is _inevitable._ And as long as we are too afraid to question our own urges, be they to give or to receive control, we will be propping up every system of oppression one can name.”

He is. Oh, God, he is. He’s standing in front of this room full of people and saying, not just that he doesn’t want to be Grantaire’s dom, not just that he rejects the offering Grantaire is trying to make to him, but that he’s revolted by it. He doesn’t see the beauty and the love that Grantaire does there. He sees pain and… and _evil._

Grantaire is starting to get dizzy. He wants to get back up from his knees, wants to flee this room and the utter humiliation of offering himself up like this only to meet with such complete and absolute rejection. But he can’t quite figure out how to get control of his body. It’s as though, after waiting for so long to be allowed to submit, his limbs have decided they’re going to bend down before Enjolras, without Enjolras or Grantaire wanting it.

He just wishes Enjolras could have had the decency to reject him in private, or at least personally. He knows he’s hardly the sub of most dominant dreams, but he’s tried hard to make himself the best that he could be, and he thought the bond he’s always felt with Enjolras was worth _something,_ at least. They may be strangers to each other, but Enjolras is his soulmate. Why doesn’t that mean anything to him? Not even enough to want to spare Grantaire the humiliating spectacle of public and impersonal rejection of everything he is and everything he hoped to be able to give to Enjolras?

“The fact is that these ideas are not just in our society. We’ve internalized them, and chosen to maintain them. Half of us have given into our desires to be monsters, violently controlling others and daring to call it love. The other half have made themselves pathetic.”

One of the other people in the room—Bahorel, Grantaire thinks, though his mind is growing fuzzy—starts to object, but Enjolras cuts him off.

“You would not have me say as much, I am sure. I know it must not be easy to hear. But what else would you call a man who willingly grovels at another’s feet? Who chooses to make himself into an object to be used? This we have been told that we should cherish as a show of love. But I say to you instead, we should despise it as weakness, as an abdication of the responsibility of every person, regardless of orientation, to be a free and equal member of our Republic.”

Grantaire draws himself up to his knees, though he cannot bring himself to look at Enjolras. There is no reason to—he knows what he would see on those perfect features.

Nothing but disgust, for him, someone who wants nothing more than to be this low and pathetic thing that Enjolras so frankly loathes.

The rest of the conversation happens in a blur. He supposes he should be faintly happy that everyone else in the room is shouting Enjolras down. Bahorel threatens to punch him. Courfeyrac points out that he’s totally erasing the growing number of people who identify as neutrals or switches. Combeferre adds, quietly but sternly, that conflating abuse with consensual dominance and submission is offensive both to those who willingly and lovingly share such activities and to those who have actually been harmed by partners in the past.

Grantaire can barely hear them. He just feels Joly’s hand on his shoulder, gently. “‘Aire? Can I help you at all?”

Grantaire chokes on thin air. He can’t make words come out of his mouth. He can’t do anything, paralyzed by the potent mixture of shame and despair he feels.

“Enjolras!” Joly calls, his voice furious, and Grantaire isn’t looking up but he _feels_ Enjolras turn towards them, feels his attention on Grantaire fully for the first time. He hears as Enjolras takes a single step towards them at Joly’s command, “Get your ass over here and _explain_ yourself, you… you idiot!”

Enjolras is coming towards them.

Enjolras is coming to _talk_ to him.

To tell him again, this time to his face, how completely repulsive and wrong he finds the idea of taking the offered ownership of Grantaire’s body and soul.

Grantaire stumbles to his feet, his legs numb, and flees the cafe. He gets a single glimpse of Enjolras’ face before he goes.

He looks stoic, and a little bit sad. Like the most beautiful statue in the world. Marble, and perfect, and untouchable.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> particular warnings here for: slight ableism, mention of alcoholism and self-injury

Joly doesn’t catch up with Grantaire until he’s back in his flat, with the door securely locked behind him. He’d heard Joly rushing after him, calling his name, as soon as he’d turned to flee the site of his humiliation, and, disgracefully, decided to outrun his friend rather than wait for him. Since Joly is dependent on his cane to walk, it’s about the nastiest thing Grantaire could have done to him, but his need to be alone outweighs even his desire to be a good friend.

Now Joly is pounding on the door. Grantaire curls up into a ball on the ground and ignores him.

He just wants to drink himself into quiet oblivion and forget, for _one second,_ what has just happened. What he’s lost.

He’s lost the dream that defined his entire life. He’s lost the only real sense of himself he’s ever had. He’s lost _everything,_ and he’s just not ready to talk about it right now—especially not with someone who saw every awful moment of it, who witnessed his humiliation first-hand.

Sooner or later, he’ll have to let Joly in, he knows. He’ll have to talk about it. But not yet.

For now he just wants to be alone with his misery. He wants to let it wash over him in waves. He wants anything but company.

Joly raps on the door again, this time using his cane to knock, hard enough that the door rattles.

Grantaire flinches at the sound but doesn’t move, instead tucking his head in between his knees. He just wants to be alone. Why won’t Joly leave him alone? Why won’t he see that there’s no point in trying to make Grantaire feel like anything other than he is, abandoned and useless and unwanted? Why won’t he give up on Grantaire, the way everyone else always has—the way his _soulmate_ has, without even giving him a chance?

He’ll just wait. If he waits long enough, Joly will have to give up and go away. It’s not a very good plan (presumably, Joly is more than capable of figuring out that Grantaire is, in fact, here, in his own apartment) but it’s the best plan he’s capable of coming up with at this exact moment in time.

“Grantaire, if you don’t open this door, I’m calling Eponine,” Joly threatens. Grantaire winces and, yes, goes to open the door. He’s stubborn, not suicidal. And dealing with Eponine right now is the worst thing he can imagine.

Joly is wincing when Grantaire opens the door, and Grantaire feels another flash of guilt. He recognizes the signs of Joly having overdone it on his leg, and gets him a chair right away. It also means he can’t ask Joly to leave, not right now, not until he’s had a chance to rest. “Do you need anything else? Ice? Ibuprofen?”

“I need to know you’re okay, ‘Aire,” Joly says, and his voice is so kind and so gentle that it breaks Grantaire’s heart. Even after he’s been such an incredibly shitty friend to Joly today, Joly is still being so nice to him. So much nicer than he deserves.

“I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me.” Grantaire hears his own voice as though it’s coming from a great distance. It sounds flat and strange, as though it belongs to someone else.

“Bahorel did end up punching Enjolras in the face, if that helps.”

Grantaire flinches at _his_ name.

“After you left, he shouted at him to go after you and apologize for being such an absolute turd, and it came to blows. Well, blow, really. One punch from Bahorel is usually enough to make people reconsider their terrible decisions.”

Grantaire can tell that Joly is trying to cheer him up, but his friend’s humor feels like it’s so far away now that he can’t possibly understand it. All he wants is to be left alone to grieve the death of every dream he ever had for his life. He doesn’t particularly want an audience for that, even a friendly one. He wants to be _alone._

“We don’t have to talk about that, if you don’t want,” Joly says, quiet and serious now. “We don’t have to talk about anything. I just need to know that you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“You clearly aren’t.” Joly sighs at him, loudly enough that Grantaire knows that he’s doing it on purpose to be annoying, and Grantaire _almost_ laughs, but he can’t. Not really. “I don’t want to push you to talk about it if you don’t want to, but I’m also not leaving you alone here to drink yourself into a stupor and self-harm.”

Grantaire winces. He’s not sure how Joly knew _exactly_ what he had planned for the evening (once he got rid of his friend) but he’s right on target. “I want to be alone,” Grantaire mumbles.

“I know. And you can lock yourself in your bedroom and pretend I’m not here if you want, okay? Or sit on the couch and ignore me, or whatever. Hell, if you let me take the chair out, I’ll go back into the hallway. I’m just not leaving you alone like this, because I think you might hurt yourself. And even if you don’t, you deserve better than to be all alone in the hardest time of your life.”

Grantaire lets out a short, viciously bitter laugh at that. “Clearly I don’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“My _soulmate,_ the only person who is actually, like, biologically obligated to care about me, has decided I’m so repulsive he can’t even stand to speak to me for long enough to tell me so. He thinks everything about what I am, everything I wish we could be together, is _disgusting._ And he won’t even say it to my face. So apparently I do deserve to be alone. The universe or fate or God or whatever has decided it.” _Enjolras_ has decided it, at least.

“So he is your soulmate?” Joly asks, and Grantaire realizes he wouldn’t actually be sure.

“I knew the second he walked into the room.”

“That _dick._ ”

Grantaire looks away from his friend. “He doesn’t owe me anything, just because we’re soulmates. Obviously, that doesn’t change how he feels.”

“It’s not about you. You get that, right?”

Grantaire had only half-heard all of Enjolras’s arguments about the nature of dominance and submission over the roaring tide of panic and grief and desire in his head, but he’d gotten that much. “Yeah, sure. It’s still me that’s being tossed out like so much garbage, though.”

“Oh, ‘Aire.” Joly reaches out a hand to him, and, tentatively, Grantaire takes it. “I’m so sorry you’re feeling that way. It’s so awful, and you deserve so much better.”

Those words finally do it. The tears that have been choking Grantaire rise up from his throat, swelling and bursting and, finally, pouring forth in an unstoppable tide. It’s Joly’s kindness, his frank, earnest sweetness, that is too much for Grantaire to bear. He cries for a long, long time, Joly holding his hand from across his kitchen table. When he can finally get himself under control enough to speak, he says, “I just don’t understand why he had to do it like that. If I’m not good enough, if he doesn’t want me, I understand. But he didn’t have to humiliate me like that.”

Before Joly can agree, Grantaire shakes his head, contradicting himself.

“Then again, I’m the one who did it to myself, right? I mean, Offering myself up like that, in front of everybody. Stupid.”

“I thought it was sort of romantic, actually,” Joly says, to Grantaire’s surprise.

“I mean, but you’re—“

“Neutral, yeah. It wouldn’t be for me, but I thought it was sweet. It’s just a way of showing that you wanted to be with him, right? That you wanted to acknowledge the bond?”

“Yeah.” Honestly, Grantaire wold be disappointed if it turned out his soulmate was a neutral or another sub or something, but it wouldn’t be a dealbreaker for him. Especially knowing that it’s _Enjolras._ Now that he’s seen him, he can’t imagine anything he wouldn’t be able to give up cheerfully to be with him.

He has to stop thinking that way. It can only hurt him. Enjolras is never going to want to be with him, no matter what. If he’d thought there was a possible future for them, but had some moral qualm or just a lack of interest in dominance and submission, he could have talked to Grantaire about that. The only reason to denounce his very being in front of a whole room of people is to give a message no one could possibly miss: he doesn’t want Grantaire, and he never will.

“I still do,” Grantaire admits quietly. “Not just because I’ve built this up in my head, although I have. But because…”

“Because it’s him?”

Joly may be a neutral, but he has two soulmates of his own. He understands what Grantaire means, how much he means it, when he says, “Yeah. Because it’s him.”

“I’m so sorry, ‘Aire. You deserve someone who would appreciate everything you have to give.”

“I thought the whole point of the bond is that it gives us exactly what we need to be our best selves.”

“That’s essentialist claptrap and you know it.”

Grantaire shrugs slightly, acknowledging the point. He doesn’t really believe in the mysticism of the bond, in the people who say that it’s designed by a higher power, but right now it feels true. Like his rejection by Enjolras is the final proof of the nagging doubt he’s had his whole life. Like this explains it—why he’s never felt good enough, why he’s always struggled with self-doubt and even depression. It’s because he was destined for this, the ultimate rejection.

Joly squeezes his hand. “Can I text everybody? Let them know I’m with you and you’re alive? My phone has been going off non-stop.”

“Sure.” It doesn’t matter what they know about him now, after all. It’s not like he could sink any lower in the esteem of people who have already seen him groveling on the floor for a man who didn’t even acknowledge his existence.

“And then I’m gonna order some dinner, and we can watch a movie or something. Boussuet’s gonna come drop my stuff off so I can spend the night—do you want him to stay?”

“You don’t have to do all this,” Grantaire mumbles, now having slightly given up on pretending that he really wants to be alone, even to himself. He doesn’t.

Joly’s voice is as cheerful as ever. “I know. I don’t have to do anything. But I’m going to, ‘Aire, because I’m your friend and I love you.”

He may not have a soulmate, but at least Grantaire has that. It's still a lot more than he deserves.


	5. Chapter 5

  
Life goes on for him. 

He gets up. Gets dressed. Eats. Goes to work. Comes home. Drinks. Stares at the ceiling. Tries not to think about Enjolras. Eventually falls asleep. Does it again. 

It becomes a routine. Rote and empty. But that's all that's left for him. The dreams that his life could be something more, that he could be happy, are gone.

He just barely makes it through the days. Some are harder than others. He misses a lot of shifts at work. Luckily, people tend to be understanding about anything soulmate-related, although he's purposely vague about what, exactly, is going on with him. He doesn't want any more people than necessary to know that he's such a fuck up that even his soulmate, the person who is supposedly perfectly crafted to compliment him in every way, doesn't want anything to do with him.

The sadness, the pain of the rejection, is bad enough, but what really gets to him is the humiliation of it. He can't stop thinking of that moment when he got to his knees, of Enjolras's eyes sliding over him like he wasn't even there. Like he didn't matter at all.

The fact that it's a corruption of what he's always wanted makes it harder. He used to dream of fitting effortlessly into his dom's life, of being able to make himself an indispensable, almost invisible tool, of being useful and necessary. 

But not being nothing. 

Which is what Enjolras thinks of him, clearly. That he doesn't matter at all. That he's not worth the care it would take to even say, in so many words, "I'm sorry, but I don't want to do this."

Grantaire has never even heard of someone being rejected by their soulmate before. Yes, there are the rare occasions where it doesn't work out, even though it's supposed to. Sometimes soulmates have such different goals in life that the fact that they're perfect for each other can't overcome it. Sometimes careers or family responsibilities tear them apart. It's always a tragedy when that happens. 

But Grantaire has never heard of a soulmate being rejected, the way he was. Just being seen as not good enough for the person that he's supposed to be meant for. Made for.

Not everyone believes in that these days. Some people--Enjolras apparently included--think that the whole soulmate system is outdated, that it's just a way to control subs and keep them feeling inferior, that humanity has evolved past that.

If Grantaire were more political, he could point out that people only ever seem to feel that way until they actually met their own soulmate. 

Except, he supposes, for Enjolras. 

But that might just be that Enjolras had the misfortune to be saddled with Grantaire for a soulmate.

It's beyond obvious how much better he deserves. Enjolras is gorgeous and brilliant, with charisma that everyone talks about and passion that lights up a room. Grantaire is an ugly, useless waste of space. The idea that they're meant for each other is ridiculous. 

It's no wonder their bond couldn't overcome Enjolras's instinctive distaste for him. Maybe it's even the other way around. Maybe Enjolras hates the whole idea of a bond because he was unlucky enough to get stuck with someone like Grantaire, who couldn't possibly be good enough for him. 

Grantaire can see that. The whole system would seem pretty messed up, if you were Enjolras and it were telling you that you were supposed to spend the rest of your life dealing with someone like Grantaire following you around, pleading for scraps of your attention. That you were somehow supposed to love someone who could never, ever be good enough for you. 

So, yeah, Grantaire isn't doing great, to be honest. He's alive, and that's about the most he can say for himself. And that's only because his friends keep insisting on checking in on him and making sure he's eating and sleeping and doing the things people are supposed to do. Which he does, but only because his friends insist. 

He just doesn't have any meaning left. Maybe that's the hardest part, actually. That he's lost the thing he built his life around. On top of the pain of the rejection, and the way he loves Enjolras even after meeting him only once, there's just this hole at the center of his life, where his soulmate was supposed to be and now never will be, because Enjolras doesn't want him. 

It's no wonder he goes through his days like a ghost. He's never been the most determined person. He's never really had a goal or any drive in his life, except for the dom he imagined would one day lay claim to him and give him that meaning he was missing. 

Now he knows he'll never, ever have that. Enjolras could not possibly have been more clear about his rejection of anything having to do with Grantaire. Grantaire will never have the love he dreamed of, will never be able to dedicate himself to his soulmate the way he always hoped he one day could.

His life is a void now, without the guiding light of the purpose he always saw in his future, a hope for something more than what he could be on his own.

Obviously, he was an idiot to think that he could deserve that. 

Eponine won't get off his case about finding something new to dedicate himself to. If it's not going to be a dom, like he always hoped it would be, then he should get serious about his art career, or go back to martial arts, or anything. 

He doesn't want to. "I'm a fundamentally unserious person, Ep."

She smacks him on the shoulder, which is the primary way that Eponine communicates affection. "I'm not letting you live the rest of your life in a haze of misery. At least go get laid."

"No!" he says, instinctively.

"Why the fuck not, R? What are you waiting for?"

He's waiting for his soulmate. Who, right, has totally rejected the idea of ever being with him. Who not only does not want him, but finds the very concept of his submission so revolting that he mocked it in front of a room full of people. 

Okay, so Eponine has a point.

It's still a while before he can actually bring himself to do it, but the idea sticks in his mind. Whenever he gets the urge to kneel on the ground, whenever he's trying to fall asleep and can't stop wishing for the warmth of someone (Enjolras) beside him, whenever he can't help picturing that moment he always dreamed of when his own dom's collar would finally close around his throat... 

He feels a rush of things he can hardly name. Longing and sadness and bitterness and, yes, anger. Anger at himself for not being enough, of course, but more than that--anger at Enjolras for rejecting him and everything he had to give. Everything he offered him, willingly. 

Grantaire isn't proud of it, but it's that last feeling that finally brought him here, to this club. 

He wants to get back at him, in some strange way. Which is ridiculous, because Enjolras has made it perfectly clear that he has no interest in anything Grantaire has to offer, that he finds both Grantaire's submission and his person revolting, and that he's not tempted in the least by the possibility of being with him in any intimate way. 

Still, Grantaire feels like he's getting back at him in some kind of strange way. At least, he's saying he won't simply wait for Enjolras for the rest of his life, wallowing in the depth of the complete rejection Enjolras feels for him. He'll do something else. 

And maybe someone else will want him, at least for a quick scene. 

That's tempting too, the idea of being chosen, of being good enough to please another dom. It'll never fill the void that Enjolras's rejection has left in his life--nothing can ever do that, and he knows it--but maybe he'll be able to forget about it for a few brief hours. 

Also, and this is important, it might get Eponine off his case for five minutes. 

Places like the club Eponine has picked out are common. Some are mostly for soulmates and other couples to play together with the kind of equipment they can't get at home, or because they enjoy an audience, or to cruise for a guest to join them for a night. Others, like the one that Eponine suggests to him, have a seedier reputation. They're for people who are willing to play outside the bonds of a relationship, as many people do these days. He's never set foot in one.

Until now. 

"This is a terrible idea," Grantaire grumbles to himself. "I don't even know what I'm doing."

"You're going to see that the world doesn't begin and end with that asshole," Eponine reminds him.

It does. It always will, even if that asshole's role in Grantaire's world has also begun and ended extremely quickly. Grantaire will always revolve around him, like a planet in orbit around a sun.

Or maybe around a black hole, sucking him in to complete destruction. That seems like a better metaphor these days. 

Eponine smacks him again. "Stop wallowing, R."

"I'm not wallowing." He absolutely was wallowing.

"This is gonna be fun. You've never even been to a class in a club before. You can just watch and learn, it'll be cool."

There's nothing for him to learn for, since the entire point of becoming a better submissive was to offer that to Enjolras, who, again, doesn't want it, but he'll still go.

Eponine dresses him up in clothes she's 'borrowed' from who-knows-where. The outfit includes a black leather underbust, eyeliner, a chest harness, and tight black leggings. Grantaire is more than a little embarrassed to see himself dolled up this way, like a sub in a porn film or something. 

"I look ridiculous."

"You look hot. All your best assets on display."

"I don't have any assets," Grantaire grumbles.

"You do too. You have lovely eyes, and great muscles."

Grantaire gapes at her.

"What? I'm gay, not blind. So you're not pretty. You're still a great sub, and I bet they'll eat you alive in there."

"I bet no one will notice I exist," Grantaire grumbles, but he can't deny that he feels the first thrill of excitement he's encountered in a long time at the idea of being wanted, even by a stranger, even for a night. "Okay. I'm going."

"Good. Have fun. Safe call by midnight, or I'm calling the cops."  
  
"Yeah, yeah." He really doubts he'll find anyone who wants to scene with him enough to need a safe call--or be able to bring himself to let another dom touch him, even if one wants to--but he agrees just so he doesn't have to keep going over this with Eponine.

And then there's no more stalling, and it's time to give this ridiculous scheme of Eponine's a try. 


	6. Chapter 6

Honestly, Grantaire has expected something more shocking. More, well, salacious. Sexier. More like the scenes in movies where people go to clubs and end up inevitably bumping into their soulmate there and getting hot and heavy right on the floor, with everyone else looking on in envy at how perfect their love is, and, yeah, Grantaire needs to steer himself away from that particular line of thought in a hurry.

It helps that the club is nothing like the set for one of those scenes. It's hard to imagine anything romantic or amazing happening here. 

This is just... a big, empty room. Okay, it's painted black, presumably for atmosphere, and there's the occasional piece of dungeon furniture (a St. Andrew's cross over here, a spanking horse in the corner, a human-sized cage over there), but otherwise, it's just a room. Like a house party that hasn't gotten going yet. There's a little corner with some snacks and sodas, and a small stage, and some people milling around. 

He isn't sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. Maybe both. Probably both.

It's not as scary as he expected. Or as exciting. It's not like he'd been expecting some sexy leather-clad stranger to shove him to his knees the minute he crossed the threshold, but he's also a little surprised that there's no indication that this is anything other than an ordinary party, other than the furniture that's not being used. 

He makes himself take a deep breath. It's still early in the evening, and things probably won't pick up until later. He wasn't really planning on actually playing with anyone tonight, anyways. He just wanted to look around. See what this was like. See if it was even possible for him to consider finding a connection with someone other than his soulmate. 

No, he told himself he wasn't going to think about that tonight. Wasn't going to think about Enjolras. 

He's going to think about other things. He's going to think about what he wants. 

Which is to not have to think about Enjolras. 

Even his name hurts. His perfect, pretty, untouchable name. Like everything about him, it's too good for Grantaire. 

He doesn't want to think about Enjolras. That's the whole reason he came here, anyway. He needs a distraction from sulking around his house by himself. He wants to think about literally anything else.

He finds himself sizing up the other people in the room. There's about fifteen of them, milling around, chatting. No one is doing anything particularly kinky yet, which is a little bit of a disappointment. If somebody where whipping someone else bloody, he'd have a reason to feel so awkward. As it is, the only thing he can blame is his own social anxiety, which, though it's a true reason, feels like a spectacularly uninteresting one.

Maybe he should just turn around and go home. There's no way he's going to have the guts to actually meet anybody here. That would involve approaching one of these clusters of strangers and trying to get them to notice him, and he's full up on rejection for the rest of his life. 

Intellectually, he understands that meeting someone, even for a quick rebound hookup, will require putting himself out there, at least to some extent. Emotionally? Absolutely not. The idea of being vulnerable like that again is unbearable. Maybe it was worth it for his soulmate, but not for an evening's entertainment. Not even if it would distract him from the thoughts of Enj--the thoughts of what he's lost, he corrects himself quickly. He has to try to stop thinking about Enjolras, when even the name causes him pain. 

"Hi," says an unfamiliar voice. Grantaire turns around to see a tall, beautiful young blonde, obviously a domme. She's dressed in a bright blue sundress, and holding a clipboard. He thinks he recognizes her. "Grantaire, right?"

The memory clicks into place. She was one of the people at that meeting. Shame crawls through him--she's seen him brought so low. Maybe he should run for it. Maybe it was stupid to think he could leave that shame behind. He never wanted to see any of those people again, except maybe Joly and Boussuet, and only because he already loved them and knew he loved him. The rest of them, as far as he'd been concerned, he was planning on avoiding forever.

And now here is a living testament to the single worst experience of his life, a stranger who nonetheless knows exactly what he wants and exactly what he's lost. 

"I'm Cosette. We met at the Amis meeting where Enjolras was an insufferable monster?"

Hearing Enjolras's name goes through him like an electric shock. He feels himself flinch, and the domme--Cosette--takes a step back. She holds up both hands in a conciliatory gesture. 

"Hey, I'm sorry. I don't mean to bring up something unpleasant. I just wanted to say hello, since I think you're new here."

"New to all this," he confesses. "I've never, um..."

"Done any public play?"

"Done any play," he admits, not able to meet her eyes. It's embarrassing, he knows, for someone of his age to be totally inexperienced. Probably no one will want him, since he doesn't even know what he's doing as a sub, outside of the romantic fantasies that look so stupid now. But it's not like he could be any more embarrassed than he was already. She saw him grovel on the floor for a dom who couldn't even be bothered to speak with him directly. 

"Well, we're happy to have you. I'm one of the regulars here. It's a nice little community of people who play together, enjoy each other's company--intimately and otherwise. Marius, my soulmate, doesn't care for public play, but I love having other people I can share this with. I hope you'll have a nice time tonight."

"Thank you."

"Can I ask what brings you here?"

He hesitates, unsure how exactly to describe the mix of despair and terror he's feeling. "Um. I guess... I was curious about... what it would be like. To maybe. Be with somebody."

"That makes sense," she says. "And what do you think so far?"

He shrugs, not able to meet her lovely blue eyes. They're too much like... 

But he told himself he would never think of those other blue eyes again. 

"It's hard. I don't know how I would even go about starting to meet people."

She's looking at him curiously. "We actually have a special event tonight, if you're interested. That might help with that. No pressure, obviously."

"What is it?"

"We do these little auctions about once a month. Subs can enter if they want, and doms can bid on their company for the evening. Proceeds get split--half to keeping this place afloat, half to charity. Tonight's is for a great local shelter where the Amis and I volunteer sometimes."

"Huh." The idea is tempting. Obviously, it's a fantasy he's had--pretty typical for most subs, though he didn't know things like this got played out. But the idea of being bid over by multiple doms, all wanting him... yeah, the appeal is pretty clear. Not that he ever though the would live out the fantasy, since he assumed that once he met his soulmate he'd be with him and only him forever. 

"Or if you want me to introduce you to anyone, just let me know, okay? I'll be a little busy running the auction, or I'd be sure to show you around, but I'm happy to help if I can."

Grantaire wishes the fact that she pities him exorbitantly was a tiny bit less obvious, but he'll take any positive attention he can get, at this point. Especially from a domme like this one, who seems so confidant and so kind, all at once. She's basically radiating dominance. But of course, she already has a soulmate, and what sounds like other playmates too. It's kind of her just to try to help him. "Thank you," he says.

She smiles at him, warmly. "It's also okay to just hang out. There's no pressure to play if you don't want to. Either way, I hope you'll have a great night here."

She strolls away, going to approach a pair of nervous-looking soulmates. Presumably they're also newcomers, like Grantaire, although at least they don't have to be alone.

He should probably just go. He doesn't even really know why he came here--he's looking for something he knows he wont' find. Even Cosette's kindness didn't make him feel better. Nothing's going to make him feel better, since he doesn't have a soulmate, not one who will ever be willing to be his partner. No one can replace the hole that's left in his life. 

The idea has wormed its way into him now, though. The idea of being on display like that. Being on offer. Of some dom--not his dom, that part of the fantasy has to be laid aside forever now--finally laying claim to him.

Of being able to relax enough to fall into subspace, and forget all about his problems. To not think of Enjolras--to not think of anything--for a few blessed hours. To only have to worry about the dom that he's with for the night, about what they want, pleasing and serving them, flying on the delight of knowing that he's good enough for someone, even if he'll never be good enough for Enjolras. 

He's heard other subs describe it over the years, but he's never experienced subspace himself. It's another thing he expected to save for his dom--an idea that now seems absurd, since Enjolras doesn't want any part of him. 

And, yeah, he wanted it to be special. He wanted a lot of things to be special. But right now, the idea of being able to forget everything, of floating high over his own mind and not having to worry or make decisions or feel--that's too tempting to say no to. 

Before he can talk himself out of it again, Grantaire strides across the room to where Cosette is standing. He clears his throat. 

"Sign me up," Grantaire says to the domme with the clipboard. "I want to be part of the auction."


	7. Chapter 7

After filling out some long and boring paperwork, Grantaire is ready to go up onstage. There were a lot of questions about his interests, his experience, everything else. Even though the answers to most of it is that he has absolutely no experience and no idea what he’s doing here. He’s doing this more or less on a whim, one that he’s increasingly worried represents a foolish mistake borne of impulse—though he knows he has plenty of opportunities to back out, and Cosette seems touchingly committed to ensuring he’s going to have a good experience if he does decide to go through with it. 

“It’s just a tool,” Cosette explains to him. “We’ll still bring you and your lucky partner back here to do a bit of a debrief and some negotiation afterwards, and I can plan to have a volunteer mentor here to help if you’d like, but the forms will help jump-start that process. We’ll know what areas you have in common, and that gives us a starting place so your partner can plan a scene.”

And Grantaire thought _he_ felt nervous—he can’t imagine the stress of having to plan a scene that would not only take care of but also please a complete stranger. He supposes that’s why he’s an absolute sub. “Okay. Um, I guess this is what I have so far. There’s a lot of question marks, but there’s a lot of things I’m okay with trying, I guess.” 

Cosette looks over the paperwork and tells him it’s all okay. It’s a little bit embarrassing, to have someone he’s just met noting that he’s interested in humiliation and service submission but a little hesitant to get involved in serious painplay. He’s also left actual sex off the list, since part of him can’t imagine actually losing his virginity in such a casual circumstance. It’s probably ridiculous to worry about, since he’s been rejected by the person who’s supposed to be biologically predetermined to want to put up with him, but he still can’t quite bring himself to admit that the last of that hope is gone. He hopes he hasn’t admitted too much that’s too personal, or alternatively left too many things off the list so that he won’t be as appealing. 

But she doesn’t comment on any of it, just commends him for doing such a thorough job completing the paperwork. 

“How are you feeling?”

“As ready as I ever can be, I guess.”

“Are you sure about that?”

He thinks it over, privately listing all of his existing worries. Then he voices them. It’s hard to talk about this stuff, but Cosette is a good listener, and the anxiety seems to push it out of him. 

He feels like he looks okay, as okay as he’s ever capable of at least, and Cosette keeps telling him he’s looking gorgeous. There’s still a lump of anxiety resting in his throat, though. He’s never done anything like this before. 

He’s not sure what he’s more nervous about—that he’ll be selected by someone, and end up spending the night with a stranger, or that he won’t, and he’ll have to face rejection again.

Cosette tries to reassure him on both counts. 

He’s not obligating himself to do anything by going up for the auction, she reminds him. If he doesn’t like the person who picks him, if he just changes his mind and decides that he’s uncomfortable, if at any point this is no longer what he wants, he can simply let them know and end the encounter. It’s not really like they’re buying him—it’s merely a game, played for mutual fun and raising a little money to keep the club running. That reassurance, at least, works. 

On the other hand, he can’t shake the fear of rejection. Cosette tries to tell him that everyone has always gotten at least one bid, that no one’s ever walked off that stage without finding a partner at least for the night. There’s no reason why he would change that, or why he—as he is, Cosette tells him, quite a catch—wouldn’t be desirable. Doms would usually jump at the chance to have a partner for the night who is so willing to try out whatever they’re interested in, with few limits and a clear ability to communicate what he wants. 

“Great, then I can be the first,” Grantaire says, only partially joking. 

Cosette frowns. She does not seem amused by his self-deprecating sense of humor. “Anyone would be lucky to have you,” she says.

“Clearly that’s not true.”

“Grantaire, if you don’t want to do this, please don’t. There’s really no pressure, okay? You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to—and if you’re just not ready, there’s plenty of time for you to do this another night, okay? You can just come back another time, when you’re ready, if you ever are.”

He considers it honestly. He should probably do what she’s suggesting, just walk away and come back another time. He’s vulnerable now, and he knows it. But, on the other hand, the thought of him going home to his own lonely apartment, once again untouched and unwanted, is too much to stand. “I want to go ahead,” he says. He just can’t stand the thought of the alternative. 

Cosette looks thoughtful. “Okay. Why don’t we plan on you going second, all right? That way you don’t have to start things off, but you also won’t have to wait around so long.”

“Thank you.” Grantaire is genuinely grateful to have stumbled on someone so kind—not just because Cosette is helping him, although she certainly is, but also because it’s good to know that not everyone who saw him in his state of disgrace in front of Enjolras despises him. In fact, she doesn’t seem to look down at him at all, even though she watched him humiliate himself and be rejected by his own soulmate. It gives Grantaire a little bit of hope that maybe he hasn’t irreparably shamed himself.

“And, again, I’m serious, I want you to go ahead and step back on this if you feel unsure. Nobody will be upset with you, okay? Least of all me. I really hope you’ll be willing to do it.”

“Thanks,” he says again.

And then there’s no more stalling, and it’s time for him to face up to what he’s agreed to do. 

There’s a small crowd gathered around the stage, about three dozen dominants from what Grantaire can tell at a glance. Grantaire is one of only five subs participating, which will definitely make this a billion times worse if no one wants him. 

Cosette starts things off with a short announcement. She thanks everyone for coming, and explains how important it is for them to be generous with their donations. 

“Our community center here gives us so much more than just a place to meet potential play partners and enjoy ourselves—though it certainly does that! We also create a way to educate each other about skills, teach communication, and assist partners with finding their dynamic. We’re also proud to be raising funds for the Sheltering Hands shelter tonight, which does fabulous work providing safe, permanent housing and skilled mental health services for survivors of domestic violence. As the daughter of a domestic violence survivor myself, the work that Sheltering Hands does is literally lifesaving. Our last auction was able to raise nearly a thousand dollars—we hope we’ll break that record tonight!”

There is some applause from the crowd, and then Cosette invites up the first participant. She’s a sub in her early forties, wearing a daringly low-cut corset, a short skirt, and high heels. She’s also wearing a collar. 

Cosette introduces her as Lianne, the beloved sub of her soulmate Chris, who waves from the crowd. Their open relationship allows them to enjoy play with others, and Lianne is excited to meet a Dom tonight, one that she hopes will be able to indulge her fondness for harder S&M play. Lianne twirls around flirtatiously, waving at the crowd, and there are cheers and enthusiastic clapping for her display.

Bidding then opens. The first offers a hundred dollars, and it creeps up from there. The winning bid, at two hundred and twenty-five, is from a pretty young domme, who Lianne greets with enthusiasm. They seem to be friends already, which makes Grantaire’s stomach flip. These people are all strangers to him. 

Lianne descends from the stage, and now it’s Grantaire’s turn. He knows he could still back out, but he doesn’t want to seem like a coward, so he walks up into his place. He can’t quite bring himself to flirt with the admiring crowd the way that Lianne had, but he manages a smile and a wave. 

“Next up, we have a good friend of mine! This is R—“ he’d asked to be introduced by his nickname, maintaining some level of anonymity—“and he’s a wonderful sub, new to our community tonight. He’s bravely agreed to give this auction a shot, and I hope that he’ll be able to find someone wonderful to spend the evening with. He’s interested primarily in service submission and discipline, and I know many of you will— What are _you_ doing here?”

Grantaire, and the entire crowd, moving as one, turn their heads to see what she’s talking about, and why her tone has turned so quickly from playful fun to snapping at the apparent intruder.

It’s Enjolras. Of _course_ it’s Enjolras. It couldn’t possibly be anyone else. Because that’s just how Grantaire’s life goes. Apparently his entire relationship with his soulmate is going to consist of Enjolras occasionally accidentally spotting him in severely humiliating situations, followed by him trying to pretend it didn’t happen, followed by them going back to ignoring each other. 

“I’m here to collect Sheltering Hands’ share of the ill-gotten gains. Am I too early?” Enjolras snaps back at her, his hands on his hips. Though he’s wearing a red t-shirt and jeans, he looks infinitely more gorgeous than any of the leather-clad, carefully costumed doms clustered around the stage. 

“The _fundraiser_ is still taking place. You can stay and watch, but only if you behave yourself.”

Enjolras closes his mouth with an audible snap. 

“I’m sorry for the distraction,” Cosette says to the crowd, now completely charming again. “That was just a very rude friend of mine. But I promise, the cause is still sound! I think we can open bidding for R’s company this evening.”

There isn’t even a second’s pause before Enjolras speaks again. But it isn’t what Grantaire, or anyone, would have expected him to say. It isn’t a condemnation of everything that’s happening here, or disgust at the play at slavery, or mockery of the degradation the submissive are willingly putting them through.

Instead, Enjolras says only two words, in his clearest and most commanding tone of voice. 

“Ten thousand,” Enjolras says, and the room falls into a stunned silence.

Everyone is now staring at him in shock. Grantaire most of all. He can’t quite make eye contact with him, but he also can’t take his eyes off of him. And he absolutely cannot believe what he’s just heard. 

“What?” Enjolras says. “I bid ten thousand for the night. I’d like to add a generous donation out of pocket to what you’ve raised. Is anyone else going to bid?”

“Um, R?” Cosette asks gently. “Are you okay with this?”

Grantaire can’t find the words to speak. He has absolutely no idea what’s happening here. But he also doesn’t have any ability to deny Enjolras anything. So he slowly nods. 

Enjolras’s expression changes. If Grantaire were inclined toward hope, he might say that it seems to soften, the rigid lines around his mouth curving almost into a smile. He feels something different through their bond, too. Something like… gentleness, almost, and… regret? It’s hard to identify those feelings, since they aren’t the ones he’s used to feeling from Enjolras. 

“All right. Unless we have any other bids, I think that does it! Y’all can head to the back office. And Enjolras?”

“Yes?”

“You’d better fucking watch yourself. I _will_ tell Papa.”

Enjolras winces. “Yes, Cosette.”

The auction continues, and Grantaire steps off the stage and toward the back office where he’d filled out the forms afterward. 

It’s time to do the thing he has both longed for and dreaded since the moment of their unfortunate first meeting. 

It’s time to talk to Enjolras, face to face, just the two of them. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The much anticipated conversation! I hope it lives up to peoples' expectations.

When he opens the door, Enjolras is already waiting for him—not sitting on either of the comfortable couches in the room, or the folding chair behind the desk, but pacing back and forth. He freezes as soon as Grantaire opens the door. 

Grantaire has spent the last few weeks carefully blocking out any trace of the bond between them, trying to avoid—or, failing that, to ignore—whatever Enjolras is feeling at any given time. That is impossible with the man himself looking right at him. 

Enjolras’s emotions are nothing like he is used to. For years, through their bond, Grantaire has felt confidence, righteous anger, tender affection—all calm, clear emotions, rooted in a certainty that makes absolute sense now that he knows a little bit about what his soulmate is like. 

Now, Enjolras’s emotions are a riot of different feelings. Grantaire senses anxiety, and regret, and desire, and a thousand other things all overlapping one another. He tries not to make anything of it, though. 

He’s made that mistake once already, assuming that the combination of strength and care he felt on the other side of the bond meant those things could be meant for him. He should listen to the words coming out of Enjolras’s mouth, not whatever is echoing through their bond, for all that some people (romantics, like Grantaire used to be) call it a soul-bond. 

“I—“ Enjolras begins, and then slams his mouth shut with an audible click. He breathes deep, his nostrils flaring, his Adam’s apple jumping in his throat. 

It takes him a moment to find the words. In the interim, Grantaire waits, patiently. He consciously keeps himself from crossing his wrists behind his back, shifting into a standing present position. Enjolras doesn’t want that, and so neither does he. 

“I have been given to understand that I owe you an apology,” Enjolras says.

Oh. Grantaire’s stomach sinks. It’s not quite the worst case scenario—a part of him imagined that Enjolras had called him in here to tell him off for embarrassing him by existing, but it’s not good. He’d hoped… but it makes sense, that Enjolras only wants to get his friends, who are obviously of more delicate sensibilities than he is, off his back. No doubt Joly and Boussuet have been laying into him. “It’s fine,” Grantaire says. “I’ll tell them to back off.”

“No, I…” Enjolras looks down at the ground, near Grantaire’s feet, and every instinct is screaming at Grantaire how wrong that is. Enjolras should be standing proud, in control. But of course, he doesn’t want that, not with Grantaire. “I was… unkind. I am… sorry.”

Clearly, Enjolras is not a man experienced with making apologies. 

Grantaire isn’t sure what to say. He wants to give the formulaic answer, ‘it’s okay,’ but the fact is, it isn’t. Enjolras had humiliated him in front of a crowd, had dismissed him without a thought for his feelings, and hadn’t even had the courtesy to do it in private. Now he’s ruined what Grantaire hoped would be a chance to meet someone new, or at least forget about him for a single evening. “You don’t owe me anything,” are the words Grantaire settles on. 

Enjolras frowns. “I know that. I meant to say… I shouldn’t have spoken as I did. It was wrong of me.”

The emotions coming from Enjolras now are extremely confusing. There's guilt, again, but also frustration, and anger, and confusion. Grantaire wonders if he's angry because he's being forced to make an apology he doesn't want to make, or just because he's been convinced into spending time with Grantaire, something he's until now been very clear that he has no interest in. Grantaire doesn’t know what to say. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Grantaire says. 

“I paid ten thousand dollars for this conversation,” Enjolras responds, irritation flaring. “I hope that makes it clear I’m interested in having it.”

Grantaire bows his head at the obviously annoyed tone in his dom’s—in Enjolras’s—voice. 

At once, Enjolras’s voice softens. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I don’t… I wish you wouldn’t… see, this is my problem!”

Grantaire heaves a sigh and does something he did not expect to be doing too much of this evening—he says exactly what’s on his mind. “Look, Enjolras, we can keep talking around each other, and probably fuck up and hurt each other’s feelings again, or we can take this seriously, sit down, and have a real conversation with each other. Get all our cards on the table. And… then figure out where we go from there.”

“I want the second thing,” Enjolras says immediately. “I just… I’m not sure how to do it.”

Grantaire settles into one of the couches. “Okay, well, why don’t you start by not stammering about apologies you’re not sure how to make, and instead tell me what you want. Stop worrying about me for a second, and actually talk.”

Enjolras paces his way to the other side of the room, but he does eventually do what Grantaire had suggested and sits. His posture is still perfectly upright and extremely tense. 

God, but he’s beautiful. He looks like a statue come to life, his elbows on his knees, his perfectly featured head tilted a little bit to one side, his golden curls spilling down his shoulders. Grantaire doesn’t know that he’s ever seen a more attractive man.

Of course, your soulmate his supposed to be the most beautiful person in the world to you. It’s the basis for the bond, to draw you in to the perfect partner for you. But Grantaire is pretty sure that he’s the one person actually lucky enough to get the world’s best-looking man as a soulmate.

Or maybe unlucky enough. Since it’s just one more way Enjolras is too good for him. 

“So…” Enjolras begins, with an uncertainty that Grantaire can tell is unusual for him. 

“So, I think I pretty much put _my_ cards on the table,” Grantaire says, trying to make a joke of it. He doesn’t exactly want to relive his greatest humiliation in front of the person whose esteem he still desires most, but he has to start this conversation somewhere or spend the rest of his life wallowing in the grey and miserable uncertainty he’s dwelt in ever since his first meeting with Enjolras, and the only way past that is to be honest. “I think I made what I want pretty clear, but let me actually say it.” 

“Please.”

Grantaire swallows hard. He can’t look at Enjolras as he says this next part, but he can feel what Enjolras is thinking—curiosity, and hope, and those are encouraging enough that he finds the strength to say, “I really want us to be together. I always have, long before we met. I believe in bonds in general, and our bonds in particular, and I want you to be my dom. I did before, and I still do now. There, that’s my side of things. What about you?”

“Um. Where do you want me to start?” Enjolras asks.

“You don’t want me as a soulmate,” Grantaire says. Pain lances through his heart at the words, but he forces himself to press on. “Will you tell me why?”

Enjolras leans forward slightly. Though he’s still across the room, easily eight feet away, his proximity takes Grantaire’s breath away. “It’s not that I don’t want you as a soulmate. I can see how I might have given that impression, wrongly, and I do apologize.”

Grantaire’s stupid, hopeful heart leaps in his chest. It’s the first indication Enjolras has ever given (besides, okay, bidding the sum total of Grantaire’s annual rent on a single evening with him) that he wants anything to do with Grantaire. “Then what…”

“I don’t want to be anyone’s dom, Grantaire.” Enjolras looks right into his eyes, piercing, intense blue meeting Grantaire’s own gaze, muddied with confusion. “It’s not that I don’t want you as a sub. I don’t want _anyone_ to be my sub. Not ever.” 

Grantaire manages, with some effort, to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Enjolras says that like he’s revealing a dark secret, as though he hadn’t said as much within five minutes of their first meeting. “Well, I knew _that._ ”

“Er. Right.” Enjolras looks away, embarrassed. “I’m, um, I’m assuming it would be too much to hope for that you… understand?”

“Understand not wanting to dom someone? Sure, of course I understand. I don’t even want to be responsible for my own life, the idea of being in charge of someone else’s is downright terrifying. No, thank you!” Grantaire abruptly realizing he’s rambling. Always a danger, when he opens up his mouth to talk. Not that that has ever stopped him before. “Understand your particular objection? No, not really. I’m getting the sense you’re taking some kind of principled ethical stand here, but I don’t exactly get it. I mean, if I want it, and you want it—well, you don’t, but if you did—“

“Grantaire,” Enjolras interrupts, much to Grantaire’s relief, “What about the fact that I just paid ten thousand dollars to have this conversation with you makes you think I don’t want you?”

Grantaire’s brain statics out. When he can find words again, though, it’s the obvious objection he voices, not the joy he felt at Enjolras’s assertion. “Um, maybe the part where I got on my knees and offered my body and soul up to you and you didn’t even deign to look in my direction?”

That gets a gratifying wince out of Enjolras. “Right. Sorry. I do keep trying to apologize for that.”

“It’s just that pretty much gave me the impression that you don’t, in fact, want anything to do with me.”

“I know. I was…” Enjolras pauses, looking for words. It’s sort of nice to see him brought out of his normal confident swagger. “An idiot,” he finishes, a little lamely. 

“Oh.”

“I thought… I wasn’t prepared to…” Enjolras takes a deep breath. “I always imagined that my soulmate would be someone who, um, shared my ideals. Who agreed with me about, well, the way things are, and the way they should be, and, I know I’m not making a lot of sense.” He runs one hand through his long golden hair. The gesture is carelessly charming. “I’m nervous.”

“Me too, if that helps.”

“Let me try to be clearer. I have long felt that our system of dividing the world into dominants and submissives, teaching half the population that they not only must but must want to give themselves up to the desire of the other half, is merely an eroticization of the oppression that pervades our society. That, whatever our desires, we must fight against them as part of the journey to justice. This idea has… not been well received.”

“I can imagine,” Grantaire says. It hurts, to hear Enjolras repeat that, but not as much as he expected. 

“Even my closest friends and comrades, those who, in every other way, support the goals I’ve spent my life fighting for… they don’t see it the way I do. They think that it’s okay as long as it’s consensual and based in love. I always imagined, always hoped, that my soulmate would see things the way I do.”

“So I must have been quite a disappointment,” Grantaire says, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. 

“No, I…” Enjolras swallows audibly. “The moment I saw you, I… and then, to see you, like that, I… I’ve never… I wanted, so badly—but I couldn’t. Do you understand? I couldn’t. And I didn’t know what to do.”

Grantaire almost feels sorry for him. 

“I know I fucked up, but I didn’t know what else to do. I still don’t. And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to keep saying no to… to what I want. More than anything.”

Grantaire’s heart leaps in his chest. He can see how much this confession has cost Enjolras, how very, very reluctant he is to admit that any part of him is capable of wanting what he has decided, for his own obscure, Enjolras-y reasons, he can’t be allowed to permit himself. 

“Tonight, I… I made it worse, I know that. I did the exact thing I promised myself never to do. I trampled over your life, the way doms always do, the way we should be better than. I just, I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else touching you,” he says, _blurts,_ because Grantaire can feel how he regrets it at once. 

“I’m glad you did,” Grantaire says. “Enjolras, no matter what else, you’re my soulmate. I’d rather be here, having this incredibly awkward conversation with you, than be having mind-blowing sex with any other dom in the world.”

“Well, at least we’re on the same page there.”

“I have a suggestion,” Grantaire says, surprised at his own boldness.

“Sure.”

“I want this. Us. You’re telling me you do too. Not the same way I do, okay. But more than nothing.”

“I want a lot more than nothing,” Enjolras agrees, his eyes intense. 

“So.” Grantaire takes a deep breath. He wonders how much of his terror Enjolras can feel through the bond. If Enjolras rejects him again—a possibility he can’t even believe he’s opening himself up to—he’s not sure he’ll survive it. “What do you say we give it a try, then? You and me? Not as dominant and submissive, since that’s not what you want. But just… I mean, I guess I’m asking you out. Asking you to give this a try. With me. See if we can figure out… a middle ground.”


	9. Chapter 9

Well, he and Enjolras are going on a date.

A vanilla, rules-heavy, completely non-sexy date. It had taken them a significant amount of negotiation to settle on this compromise. Once Enjolras’s willingness to spend more time with Grantaire had become obvious, and he had accepted the proposition that they should go out to dinner or something like that, there was still a stunning quantity of negotiation to be done. 

That’s how they’d spent their entire evening, an evening that Grantaire had sort of thought he was going to be spending with a mysterious and dominant stranger. Doing paperwork. Filling out Cosette’s ridiculously elaborate consent forms, but minus all the sexy bits. 

It’s probably not a great sign that Grantaire would rather be doing this than going to bed with the hottest Dom in the place (Enjolras excluded. Because Enjolras is the hottest Dom in the place. And also probably the world. And Grantaire would definitely rather be going to bed with him than filling out paperwork with him, except that Enjolras has already made it clear that the latter isn’t an option, so. Paperwork it is.)

They have settled on the following evening. They’re going to meet at a café and share a meal. It’s all going to be very clothes-on and egalitarian and everything. 

Grantaire isn’t sure whether to be excited or disappointed or terrified. He settles on some mix of the three. It’s hard to focus on that when he’s distracted by the wave of feelings coming from Enjolras, who is equal parts ecstatic and relieved.

Well, the first one is flattering, anyway, though he wishes his Dom weren’t _quite_ so pleased to be not scening with him. 

Alas, Grantaire can’t have everything. He seems to be getting some little bit of Enjolras, and imagines he ought to content himself with that. 

That seems a lot easier when he sees Enjolras at the café at the appointed hour, sitting at a table tucked under the awning out front. He starts to his feet when he sees Grantaire, and reaches towards him, then leans back—obviously, he’s not sure quite how to greet the man who is somewhere between his soulmate and a stranger.

Grantaire, apparently past shyness, settles on a kiss on each cheek, a perfectly normal greeting between friends—or partners. 

“You came,” Enjolras says, smiling blindingly. 

“I’m not sure why you’d worry I wouldn’t. Sit down, we’re blocking traffic.”

Enjolras eases back into his seat, but his posture is still tensely upright. “I was… I know this isn’t what you want. I hoped… I’m glad you’re here.”

Enjolras at a loss for words. He’d managed to do it last night, but Grantaire still feels a flush of pride in that particular feat. It’s not that easy to silence this man, with his fiery passion and his absolute self-confidence. But Grantaire, perhaps alone out of anyone that’s had the pleasure of dealing with him, gets to silence him when he needs to. “I’ll follow you anywhere,” Grantaire says. “Or is that one of those things I’m not allowed to say?”

“You’re allowed to say whatever you want!” Enjolras says, all self-righteous indignation. His cheeks are already flushing red. “It would be categorically unfair of me to—oh, wait. Are you teasing me?”

“Indeed I am,” Grantaire agrees, plopping down into his own seat. He figures he shouldn’t add that his motivation is somewhere between being annoying enough to chase Enjolras off before he can get his own heart broken any further, and being annoying enough that Enjolras just might bend him over this cafe table and give him a nice hard spanking. 

That’s a hopeless dream, as he well knows. Enjolras had been perfectly clear that this was to be a tragically spanking-free endeavor. However, the warm flare of affection he feels from Enjolras almost makes up for that disappointment. 

He peruses the menu with a casual glance while actually checking Enjolras out fairly shamelessly. He looks _good,_ even better than usual. His long blond hair is in a fishtail braid that’s draped casually over one of his slender shoulders, and his undone cravat draws Grantaire’s attention to the hollow of his throat. Grantaire can’t help but wonder if Enjolras had gotten dressed up on purpose, because he wanted to look good for his sort-of-date with Grantaire. 

That’s a ridiculous thought, but Grantaire can still hope, right? 

The waiter arrives to take their orders. “Monsieur?”

Enjolras orders a vegetarian galette and a glass of white wine. 

“And for your submissive?”

The embarrassment is _almost_ worth it to watch the color that Enjolras turns. It’ s a shockingly bright shade of red, almost as vivid as his jacket. Grantaire lets him stew in it for a second before saying, “Blanquette de veau, please.” Part of him is pleased that Enjolras is so obviously dominant that the waiter just assumed that they were the sort of couple where he’d make Grantaire’s dinner decisions for him, especially since this cafe—chosen by Enjolras—is hardly the sort of old-fashioned establishment where that would be the expectation. _See?_ Grantaire wisely refrains from saying. _Everyone thinks you give off crazy Dom vibes, not just me._

“I’m sorry about that,” Enjolras says, blushing again, as the waiter leaves. 

“It’s your hang-up, not mine.”

“You can’t tell me that you’d be happy to let me order your dinner for you, or order you around in front of a stranger.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Why not?”

“I—it’s—“ Enjolras flounders, apparently realizing what thin ice he’s sliding on. If he repeats his earlier sentiments—that submission is inherently degrading, that it must be humiliating (you know, in a bad way) to follow someone else’s commands—he’s insulting Grantaire, the very thing he’s trying to make up for having done. But it’s obvious he doesn’t have any other justification. “I guess… I wouldn’t like it.”

“Well, I don’t think anyone is mistaking you for a sub.” Enjolras is beautiful enough to be anyone’s sub, of course, with the classically pretty features that Grantaire has long envied, but anyone who’s spoken to him for longer than an eighth of a second would know that he’s a Dom all the way, even if he doesn’t want to be.

“It’s not something I’ve ever had to endure, no. I imagine it must be an irritating assumption to have made about one?”

Grantaire tilts his head. “Why? It’s true.”

“I… don’t see why your… private interests should affect the way you’re treated publicly, that’s all.”

“But it’s not private, not for me.” Grantaire had been kind of hoping they wouldn’t _immediately_ start arguing about this, but he’s starting to realize that’s not exactly Enjolras’s way. “I mean, I don’t have to be a sub in public all the time if I don’t want to, but I don’t mind if people assume it about me. I guess I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being the way I am.”

Grantaire wonders if the degree of pleasure that he takes in the flare of emotions from Enjolras after that (disagreement, then guilt, then frustration, then disapproval, then extreme frustration) technically qualifies him as a sadist. He probably shouldn’t be having so much fun riling Enjolras up, but it’s just so _easy._

In spite of his shameless teasing, they do manage to have a really pleasant evening. He learns that Enjolras is twenty-three and an only child (the latter point seemed obvious), that he comes from a wealthy and aristocratic old family that have mutually disowned him, that he founded the Amis when he was in college and considers it his proudest achievement. 

“And, uh, have you ever seen anyone? Seriously?”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to talk about exes on the first date,” Enjolras says blandly, and Grantaire sputters. That’s enough to get Enjolras to crack a smile. “Oh, I see. You’re the only one allowed to tease.”

“I just didn’t know you were capable of it, that’s all.”

Dinner is good, Grantaire is pretty sure, although if he’s being honest he barely notices that he’s eating. He’s too entranced by the tidbits of information he picks up from Enjolras, who, he learns, has not indeed ever had a serious boyfriend, who is (he reads between the lines) every bit as much a virgin as Grantaire is.

They discuss other, less prurient, matters as well. Enjolras has a passion for political philosophy (of course), but is otherwise not as widely read as Grantaire. He listens with the same passionate intensity he does everything else, and doesn’t seem to mind the rambles that Grantaire has been accused of making ‘barely coherently’ in the past. Through the bond, Grantaire feels nothing but warmth and interest, and he’s sure that Enjolras is getting the same from him in return. 

The only additional spot of aggravation is when the check comes. Enjolras scoops it up, like a good dom, although Grantaire is sure that, if asked, he’d say it was only because he was the one that issued the invitation, _technically._

“Let me,” Grantaire says, reaching towards it. Enjolras shouldn’t have to do all the unpleasant parts of being a Dom (like planning dates and footing bills) with none of the fun parts. 

“Nonsense. I extended the invitation,” he says, all formal, exactly as Grantaire had predicted. 

“Don’t be silly. You spent ten thousand dollars to have a little chat with me yesterday. I think I can pick up dinner.”

“That was a _charitable donation._ ”

“That was exorbitant! And absurd!”

Something softens in Enjolras’s face, and Grantaire can feel something warm coming through the bond, too. “It was worth it,” Enjolras says. “You can get next time.”

“Fine,” Grantaire says, pacified by the implicit promise. _Next time._

After dinner, they decide, by mutual agreement, to take a walk through the city together. Grantaire is pleasantly surprised when Enjolras asks, “Can I… hold your hand?”

He’s blushing again, apparently embarrassed to have asked the question. Grantaire reaches for his hand with no further delay.

Enjolras’s hand is soft and warm in his own, and the air of Paris at night is cool. It is a perfect evening. Grantaire feels like almost any other couple, strolling through the city together, stopping to share a joke or a smile. 

There’s only one difference, and that’s when, at last, a little after midnight, a yawning Enjolras says, “My place is right around this corner. I think I have to say good-night, but only if you promise we can do this again soon.”

“I could… come keep you company now?” Grantaire suggests. 

The wave of feeling from the bond—absolute refusal, and certainty, and a surprising splash of, is that guilt?—stuns him. Enjolras doesn’t even have to say no.

“Forget it,” Grantaire says, ducking his head. “I’m sorry, I—“

“No, it’s not that, it’s… I’m the one that’s sorry, I… We had such a great night, Grantaire, can’t we just forget it?”

“Sure,” he agrees, too quickly. “Can I at least kiss you good night?” He wants something to take the taste of Enjolras’s disgust out of his mouth.

Enjolras steps in close to him, pressing his lips briefly to Grantaire’s. “Good night,” he says, with a soft smile, and pets Grantaire’s cheek. Grantaire’s whole being yearns for him, and he lets his eyes flutter shut for a second.

When he opens them, Enjolras is walking away, back into his apartment building. Grantaire watches him go, and then slumps back towards home, trying to focus on the long evening of laughter and not… whatever this is. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: intense kinky makeouts without clear consent beforehand
> 
> This chapter is a lil on the short side, sorry! This section just needed to stand alone.

They’ve been dating for about a month now, and things are going pretty well. Pretty well. Which is not exactly how Grantaire feels like he ought to feel, considering that he is officially In A relationship with the man of his dreams… except that that man doesn’t want him.

That’s not entirely fair. 

He wants to hold Grantaire’s hand, and take him out on nice dates, and text him out of nowhere to recommend a book he might like. 

He just doesn’t want to have sex with him. 

It’s pretty clear, given the fact that Enjolras never touches him in any way more intimate than a closed-mouth kiss, or makes any move to deepen their intimacy. They’d agreed it was off the table at first, anyway. It’s pretty complicated, given that Enjolras doesn’t want to dominate Grantaire, and Grantaire isn’t sure how he’s supposed to get into sex without some sort of power exchange going on. He doesn’t have a lot of experience, true, but he’s pretty sure he is what he is. He’s probably _capable_ of having vanilla sex, but he doesn’t think he’s capable of, like, enjoying it. 

He’d probably try, for Enjolras’s sake, but that’s a tangle of effort and desire that he’s just not sure how to even begin to untangle. He knows he wouldn’t be particularly good at it, and he doesn’t really want to try. The only reason he’d be doing it would be for Enjolras, who has stated specifically that he doesn’t want Grantaire to do things for him that he doesn’t want to do, except that Grantaire does want to do things for him, just not this thing, and, yes, he _is_ giving himself a headache. 

Enjolras, of course, has exactly one suggested solution to this. Grantaire is quickly learning that Enjolras only ever has one suggestion for how to solve things. 

“We should try to talk things over.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes so far back in his skull he’s pretty sure he sees part of his brain. “Not everything can be solved with more talking.”

“I disagree,” Enjolras says, with an ironic smirk that Grantaire knows he’s meant to be charmed by. The worst part is that it sort of works. Enjolras is almost always charming, even when he’s being terrible. 

“I don’t think we’re going to come to an agreement about this, Enjolras, no matter how many times we have this argument.” 

“We could do it once more, for luck?”

Grantaire can’t join him in the joke. “I’d really rather not.”

Enjolras’s shoulders slump, and he looks dejected. “What are you saying, ‘Aire?”

“That it’s not worth fighting about this any more. Clearly, we’re not going to come to an agreement about sex, or kink, ever.”

“So, you don’t want to keep trying?” He asks, and his voice is quiet, and he isn’t meeting Grantaire’s eyes. It takes a second for things to click in Grantaire’s mind, for him to realize the absolutely wild assumption that Enjolras has apparently made. 

“What! No! Of course I don’t want to give up on _us,_ Enjolras! You’re my soulmate, I—“ Grantaire cuts himself off before he can add ‘love you’, because that would be jumping the gun if ever anything was. “I want to be with you. No matter what. It’s just that I am tired of having the same argument over and over again, about whether or not we’re going to give kink a go, whether we can try to have sex without it, whatever. We’ve already reached the ultimate compromise, we’re both miserable, good for us, can’t we just leave it here?”

“You’re upset,” Enjolras observes, and Grantaire resists the urge to roll his eyes, again, because _obviously_ he’s fucking upset, his own Dom doesn’t want him the way he’s supposed to be. 

“I’m not upset,” he says. 

“You’re allowed to be upset,” Enjolras says, in that same infuriatingly calm tone of voice. 

“For fuck’s sake, I know that.”

“So why won’t you tell me how you feel?” Now Enjolras is _not_ calm, which is good. Riling him up is satisfying. Not as satisfying as getting fucked (Grantaire presumes) but still pretty good. 

“Because I don’t want to talk about it, okay? You’re allowed to not want me, I’m allowed to not want to talk about my feelings. It’s just fair.”

“You think I don’t want you,” Enjolras says, flatly.

“Well, yes? I mean, every time I even touch you, you freeze up. You insist that we keep dominance and submission out of it. You don’t want to have sex or even do more than kiss. I get it, I’m not exactly good looking, but I would have thought that… well, never mind.”

“You… if you only knew… I want—“

Then Enjolras is kissing him, _hard._ It’s nothing like the gentle, romantic kisses they’ve shared previously. This is a dominant laying claim to his submissive, and nothing has felt so easy or right since the day he met Enjolras. 

He lets his lips fall open under Enjolras’s bruising assault, and Enjolras _growls._ He takes both of Grantaire’s wrists in one hand and rests them up over his head, pinning them to the wall behind him, and the other—the other of Enjolras’s hands comes up to Grantaire’s neck. 

Grantaire can’t beg to be choked, not with Enjolras’s tongue currently exploring every inch of his mouth, but he doesn’t need to. Just the light pressure there is enough, like the promise of a collar he’ll wear for Enjolras one day. 

Every inch of him is on fire, yearning towards Enjolras, begging for this to go on and on forever. Because this is how it’s supposed to be between them, so easy, just like this, with Enjolras taking and taking and Grantaire willingly giving, a vessel to be filled with the loving force of Enjolras’s will. 

Enjolras squeezes his wrists once, a clear non-verbal order to keep them in place, so he does, even as Enjolras pulls back. Grantaire wonders what he’s going to do. Is he going to slap Grantaire? Strip him? Get himself off while denying Grantaire any pleasure? 

_Anything,_ Grantaire wants to beg, but of course he doesn’t need to. Enjolras is already taking what he wants from him. 

Just like he’s wanted, from the minute they met, and how could he have ever doubted that Enjolras wanted this? Obviously Enjolras wants this, wants Grantaire. 

Enjolras bites his lower lip, _hard,_ and Grantaire whimpers into his mouth. Enjolras seems to like that, shoving his hips into Grantaire’s, pinning him against the wall even harder, and, _yes,_ just slightly tightening the hand around his throat. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s ever needed. He’s Enjolras’s submissive, his property, his completely, and he’s falling apart under Enjolras’s knowledgeable hands, and, God, Enjolras _wants_ him to. Wants to take him to pieces, just like this, and catch him when he falls apart in his hands. Wants to lay claim to him and say, yes, out of all the people in the world, this is the one who is good enough to be mine. This is the one that I want to knit my life with, that I want to share everything with. This is the one I need, the one I desire, the one I have chosen above all others, to treasure and to possess. 

Grantaire is practically crying into Enjolras’s fierce kiss now, and Enjolras doesn’t stop, just lays claim to every centimeter of his mouth, marking and exploring his property. 

_Yes,_ Grantaire wants to scream, but not as much as he wants Enjolras right here, swallowing up every sound that escapes his lips, devouring him whole. 

Enjolras reaches up to tug at his hair, pulling his head to the side so that Enjolras’s lips can join his hands on Grantaire’s throat, leaving a bruise there, marking him as Enjolras’s. He wonders if he’ll still be bruised there when Enjolras collars him. He wonders if Enjolras would be willing to mark him like this every day for the rest of their lives. Then he doesn’t wonder anything at all, because the pleasure swelling through him is making it impossible to think at all. He’s nothing but his desire, his aching need for Enjolras to take and control him, just as he’s doing, and now he can moan aloud, a broken noise that would humiliate him if he were in any way still capable of feeling shame, feeling anything but love for this dominant, his dominant.

Enjolras pulls away, just a little, and starts to speak, and his voice is raspy with want. “Grantaire,” he says, and Grantaire looks up at him, not quite meeting his eyes, and suddenly something shifts in Enjolras’s face, and he’s backing away, his hand no longer around Grantaire’s neck, his fingers no longer in Grantaire’s hair, the warmth and pressure of his body suddenly lost. “God, Grantaire, I am so, so sorry.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up brutally hard to write, and I still have no idea if it's good or not.
> 
> CW: Grantaire spends the entire chapter in a terrible state of subdrop, and his thoughts are very negative and not very logical.

Without Enjolras’s arms around him, Grantaire feels suddenly and horribly adrift. He’s still floating, but instead of the warm safety of Enjolras’s embrace, he’s flying through a dangerous unknown.

With a whimper, he slides to the ground, no longer even attempting to hold himself aloft as his legs give out underneath him.

He’s been rejected—again. Abandoned—again. He doesn’t know what it was about him that wasn’t good enough for Enjolras, but he wasn’t, he isn’t. If he were good, he’d still be in Enjolras’s arms, Enjolras’s hand around his throat as a gentle reminder of his ownership, his claim on Grantaire.

But Enjolras doesn’t _want_ a claim on Grantaire. He doesn’t want him at all.

Grantaire hears himself starting to sob. He wishes he could stop, he knows it’s pathetic, but he can’t help it. It feels like he’s falling to pieces without Enjolras, which he’s going to have to get used to, apparently, because Enjolras doesn’t want him.

He must have done something wrong. Maybe the way he had moaned was disgusting. Was that it? Had he been too eager? Or had he not shown Enjolras how grateful he was for it? Should he have been more responsive, or less? Or had Enjolras simply realized that he didn’t want an ugly failure of a submissive, had touching Grantaire that way made him suddenly understand how much he’d be giving up by laying claim to someone so obviously beneath him in every single way?

Grantaire wants to ask, but he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t do anything. He should just be quiet and still and hopefully not annoy Enjolras anymore, because then maybe, maybe, he’ll change his mind about leaving Grantaire. Maybe he’ll let him hang around, if only for a while, or maybe he’ll find some use for him.

He wants to beg for that, for Enjolras to let him do something, anything. If he’d only give Grantaire some orders, tell him what he wants, he’d be good. He’d be perfect, for Enjolras. If only Enjolras doesn’t leave him, he could endure anything.

“Oh, God, Grantaire, what can I do?”

That’s Enjolras’s voice. It’s Enjolras, so he must be saying something important, but Grantaire can’t make himself focus on it. He’s failing, again, compounding whatever he’d already done wrong to make Enjolras push him away, and he can feel the panic smothering him. All he’s ever wanted is to be good enough for Enjolras, and he isn’t. He never will be.

He bites his lower lip, hard, and the blossom of pain helps him focus. Suddenly, he can understand what Enjolras is saying, although it’s unbearable.

Enjolras is on one knee in front of him, and that’s wrong too. Only Grantaire should be kneeling, at his feet in front of Enjolras, to worship and serve him, only Enjolras doesn’t want that. What he says instead is:

“Do you want me to go?”

“No, please,” Grantaire chokes out, and he knows he shouldn’t ask Enjolras to stay, not when Enjolras clearly wants to be free of him, but if Enjolras leaves him now he’s not sure he’ll survive it. If Enjolras would just stay for tonight, just for five minutes… and that’s not true, of course it isn’t. It’ll break him into pieces whenever Enjolras decides he’s had enough of dealign with Grantaire, but he’ll take whatever he can get, even though he knows it’s bad to ask for it. “Please, Enjolras, please, please,” and the sound of his own desperate pleas disgust him. He knows Enjolras doesn’t want him to be pathetic like this, but he can’t stop himself.

“Shh. Grantaire, you don’t have to beg, okay? I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to.”

A clear order. Grantaire’s jaw clicks audibly, he closes his mouth so fast. No begging. He can do that. He can do whatever Enjolras wants, especially if it means he might stay. It doesn’t matter what he does as long as he’s here, as long as he doesn’t order Grantaire, still adrift and helpless, out of his sight.

Enjolras’s voice is calm. Grantaire can’t read his tone at all. Maybe he’s suppressing anger? Or annoyed? Or maybe he’s just apathetic to the irritating problem of how to deal with Grantaire. That’s it, probably. Bored by all of this. Wishing it would just go away so he could get on with his life. How Grantaire wishes he could be good and give Enjolras that, give him what he wants, but he’s still feeling too uncertain. He promises himself that soon he’ll be good and agree to leave so he doesn’t have to bother Enjolras anymore. “Now, can you tell me what you need?”

As long as Enjolras tells him to, he can’t be too angry at Grantaire’s presumption, right? And anger would be good, anyway. He wouldn’t mind if Enjolras wanted to punish him for whatever he’s done wrong—he’s not thinking clearly enough to try to deduce what. He just doesn’t want to be abandoned, doesn’t want his Dom to decide he’s not good enough and leave him here. If Enjolras is angry, that means he might care enough to correct Grantaire, and that would mean he could get a second chance to be good. “I need… you, plea—“ He cuts himself off before he can start to beg again, since Enjolras had told him not to. He feels a horrible pit of shame in his stomach. He’s only been given the one order, and it’s such a simple one, and he can’t even do that right. No wonder Enjolras doesn’t want him. He’s not a good sub, like he always hoped he’d be. He’s bad. He’s a disappointment, to himself and worse, to Enjolras.

“You want me to stay?”

Grantaire nods as hard as he can, even though it makes his head spin. He’s afraid that if he opens his mouth, he’ll start to beg again. And he can’t do that. He has to be good.

“Okay. Then I’m here. What else can I do?”

Grantaire doesn’t want to answer. He wants to be quiet so he doesn’t do anything else wrong, and be very small and not bother anyone and just disappear. But it seems like Enjolras isn’t allowing that, and that’s okay. It’s whatever Enjolras wants, even if what he wants is to watch Grantaire make another mistake and probably fuck up this second chance he’s been given.

“Answer if you can. If not, I’m just going to sit over here so I don’t bother you. But if there’s anything I can do, ‘Aire, I want to know.”

Another order. Grantaire wants to be good, even if it’s hard to say anything because he’s so afraid he’ll say the _wrong_ thing and be—not punished, he’s not afraid of that, but found wanting. Left. Alone, like this. “I need…” Grantaire shivers. “I’m really cold, and… I need… you. I’m sorry.”

“Wait, are you—are you dropping?”

Grantaire takes a moment to consider this. He’s worried that Enjolras will be angry with him because of it, because he so clearly doesn’t want to have to put up with the responsibility of a sub, much less a needy one like Grantaire. On the other hand, he doesn’t want to lie to his Dom. So he hedges, just a little bit, but he’s still honest. That seems like a good compromise, through the spinning haze of his thoughts. “I think so,” Grantaire whispers. “It’s never happened to me before. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Enjolras says. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I didn’t realize you had gone into subspace.”

Grantaire could laugh at that, if there were even one funny thing about this situation. If he weren’t in subspace, why would he be here, on his knees, falling to pieces?

He doesn’t realize he’s said that aloud until Enjolras answers.

“I thought you were… upset. That I had… taken advantage…”

Grantaire is confused, but it doesn’t matter, because Enjolras’s voice no longer sounds cold and distant. He’s speaking softly now, and looking directly at Grantaire again, and that’s good. It’s really good. Maybe Enjolras has forgiven him for whatever it is that he did wrong. Maybe he isn’t going to leave. “How could you take advantage of me? I’m yours.”

Enjolras sighs, but stops himself from whatever he was going to say. “We can talk about that later. I need to take care of you now.”

Grantaire doesn’t love the way he said that, like it’s a chore he’d rather avoid, but he’ll take anything he can get, as long as Enjolras doesn’t leave him here, shattering into pieces.

“May I touch you?”

To avoid begging, Grantaire just nods, but his body curves instinctively towards the warmth and comfort of Enjolras’s touch. Enjolras kneels down next to him, carefully placing an arm around Grantaire’s shoulder. It feels so good that a few more tears escape Grantaire’s eyes, entirely without his consent. He doesn’t want to be so desperate for Enjolras’s touch, Enjolras’s comfort, especially when Enjolras has made it clear he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t feel obligated, but he can’t help it.

He tries not to think about anything except Enjolras’s hand, making warm circles on Grantaire’s arm, and Enjolras’s shoulder, there as he can no longer support his head and drops it there to rest. Enjolras allows him to curl shamelessly into him, being held and petted and soothed, and Grantaire wants this to go on forever.

Enjolras says, “I understand that I’m supposed to offer some praise at this occasion, but I’m afraid I can’t think how to do so without it sounding condescending. I think I’ll just leave it at… I value you enormously, Grantaire, more than I can put into words, and I want you to be safe and happy, more than I want anything else. I know I’ve made a number of mistakes. Including very recently. I hope you can forgive me. And I truly hope I can make it up to you.”

Enjolras has nothing to make up for, but Grantaire can’t figure out what to say to that, so he just lets Enjolras keep petting him. He’ll do anything—or not do anything—if it means Enjolras will keep doing this. It’s all he wants. “Thank you, sir,” he says, since he’s not allowed to beg or apologize. “Thank you for doing this for me. I know you don’t want to.”

“Nonsense, Grantaire. I’m glad I get to take care of you.”

Grantaire knows that isn’t true, but it’s impossible to doubt the sincerity of Enjolras’s words, not when he can feel the soft rumbling comfort of his breath, not when he can feel the warmth of his arms and the gentle firmness of his hands. He can’t help trusting him, can’t help wanting, needing, the warmth of those arms around him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: this chapter includes explicit description of intense sadomasochistic fantasies and a brief mention of the trope sometimes referred to as "fuckpotato"

He’s not sure when exactly he falls asleep, but when he wakes back up, Enjolras is still holding him. “Hey, ‘Aire. How are you feeling?”

A little fuzzy, but not like he’s in subspace, let alone subgroup, any longer. “I’m back with it now. Sorry about that.” At least it wasn’t in front of a room full of people, like he was the last time he’d humiliated himself for Enjolras’s attention.

“You have nothing to apologize for. I grabbed you, forced myself on you, pushed you into subspace, and then nearly abandoned you, again.”

“Well, yes, but you didn’t _mean_ to.” Grantaire says, and it’s almost a joke.

“Still, I’m sorry,” Enjolras says. “And I… I think I’ve figured out how to make it up to you, if you’re amenable.”

Grantaire carefully schools his face into a facsimile of calm. He’s pretty sure what’s coming. Enjolras is going to play the self-sacrificing imbecile, and say something about how he’s hurt Grantaire too many times and is obviously not good for him and this last collapse of Grantaire’s is proof that they should just stay away from each other from now on.

Enjolras’s riot of emotions—grief and guilt and sorrow—confirm that he really means it, that it isn’t just an excuse to get away from a soulmate who must be a disappointment to him. Grantaire sees that, now that he’s no longer in the horrible drop that had followed their almost-scene.

He’s going to let Enjolras do it. It won’t be pleasant, in the moment or in the aftermath, but Enjolras had stayed with him and talked him through the drop, and that’s all he owes Grantaire. He never wanted Grantaire, never wanted this relationship with him, and he’s tried to find a compromise but it’s not working.

Losing him will be painful, of course, but Grantaire will find a way past it. He’ll have to. He won’t beg Enjolras to stay or give things another chance. He doesn’t want his pity.

He pulls out of Enjolras’s arms and sits up on his own.

“If it’s what you want,” Grantaire says, “Then go ahead.”

“I think…I owe you the truth, ‘Aire.”

That is… not what Grantaire expected. Unless the truth is “I find you deeply annoying” or “I just don’t like you like that,” but Enjolras’s riotous emotions don’t match that sort of easy dismissal.

“I haven’t been very honest with you, Grantaire. But that’s because I haven’t been very honest with _myself_. So I hope you can forgive me. If you can’t… I know I’ve caused you a lot of pain, mostly because I haven’t been ready to deal with the truth about myself, and about what I want and how I feel, so that’s my meagre excuse.”

“Did you compose this whole speech while I was sleeping?” Grantaire teases.

Enjolras’s reply is entirely serious. “Yes.”

“Right then. What’s the truth?”

“I… do have ideological issues with dominance and submission. I mean, I wasn’t lying about that. Exactly. But. I also wasn’t being totally honest.”

“Go on,” Grantaire says, because he can tell Enjolras is about to stall out.

“I. Um. The dominance that I really take issue with is. Is mine,” Enjolras says, and _oh._

All at once, things click together in Grantaire’s mind. Enjolras pushing him away as he had, but then also chasing after him. He spoke against dominance and submission at the meeting—because he’s ashamed of his own desires, and he wanted other people to agree with him that he was somehow wrong. He bid on Grantaire at that auction because he couldn’t bear the sight of another Dom going near what was _his,_ but then felt guilty about what he no doubt sees as a retrograde possessiveness.

He kissed Grantaire because he wanted to.

He’s wanted to all along. He’s wanted it every bit as much as Grantaire has, but unlike Grantaire, he’s afraid of that desire in himself. _Ashamed_ of it. “Why?” Grantaire asks softly. “I mean, you have to know it’s normal, right? Half of people—give or take, I promise I’m not erasing switches—are.”

“But.” Enjolras swallows so hard that Grantaire can see his Adam’s apple bob. “Not. The way that I am.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want all the things doms are supposed to want. I want to tie y—my sub up, and collar them, and take care of them.”

Grantaire notices that Enjolras had carefully avoided saying _you._ He’s not sure what to make of that.

“But. I also want. A lot of other things. Things I don’t want to want. Things that aren’t… aren’t _nice,_ like what Cosette and Marius have, like what other bonded couples have.”

Grantaire’s eyes roll so far back in his head he’s pretty sure he can see his own brain. “Enjolras. Are you seriously telling me that you put us both through all of this because you’re ashamed of being a sadist?”

“Um. I. Um. I guess so?” Enjolras stammers, running his fingers anxiously through his long, beautiful hair. “This isn’t exactly the reaction I expected to my shameful disclosure, you know.”

“That’s because it’s a downright silly thing to be ashamed about, and I feel like deep down you must know that.”

“I think you’re not understanding me,” Enjolras says. “I must not be being clear enough about what I really want. Because we’re not talking about some kind of normal, like, I’d like to occasionally administer a punishment, or, or spanking, or clamps. We’re talking about… about really bad stuff, ‘Aire. Stuff that I can’t imagine wanting to actually do to you, because it would _hurt_ you, and yet I can’t stop thinking about it. And I’m embarrassed and ashamed and I just feel so guilty, because I know I keep hurting you by trying to protect you from this, from _me,_ but I don’t know what else to do. I can’t push you away any more. I l—I care about you too much to do that. But I’m so scared of hurting you. I don’t know what to do.”

Grantaire would have said there was nothing on earth that could make him admit this to Enjolras, not after the shame that almost crushed him last time he offered himself up and was rejected. Nothing on earth… except this. Except Enjolras, his Dom, strong and unbendable, now apparently breaking to pieces over his own desires. Desires that Grantaire can fulfill, _wants_ to fulfill, knows it is his purpose to fulfill.

This is what he waited for, and readied himself for, all of these years. This is why he and Enjolras are made for each other. Because he can _give_ Enjolras this. He can free him from the burden of shame and self-recrimination that’s destroying him.

He can set Enjolras free.

“I want to tell you something,” Grantaire says. “I want to tell you the last thing I got off thinking about. Okay?”

“Um,” Enjolras, unsurprisingly, is taken aback. “Okay?”

“I know, the relevance to our big serious emotional conversation isn’t obvious, but I swear we’ll get there.”

“Sure,” Enjolras says, still looking a little shell-shocked.

Grantaire takes a deep, calming breath. It’s going to be hard to make the words actually come out of his mouth—this stuff is deeply humiliating to talk about, and not a fun, sexy way—but he’ll do anything to wipe that look of self-recriminating horror off Enjolras’s face, to help him stop feeling like there’s something wrong with him for being who he is. For wanting what he wants, which, okay, he’s been vague about, and it’s possible he’s actually fantasizing about something that would be a genuinely hard limit for Grantaire (like, sexily amputating all of his limbs so he can turn him into nothing more than a fucktoy, and wait, that’s hot actually, he just wouldn’t actually _do_ it, but of course Enjolras wouldn’t either), but Grantaire is about ninety-nine point nine-nine-nine percent sure that Enjolras is just beating up on himself because he’s in the habit of it. He’s gotten to know Enjolras pretty well over the last few weeks, and it’s exactly the sort of thing Enjolras would do.

Which means that Grantaire needs to show him that there’s no shame in wanting what he wants. Which means that Grantaire has to be the one to take this plunge. And, hey, if Enjolras shoots him down, it’s not like things can get any worse.

“So, here’s the fantasy,” Grantaire says, making himself look in Enjolras’s eyes. “We’re on one of our nice romantic dates. All very vanilla and lovely. We’re eating dinner together, probably, and I’m telling an inane story about my day. And then you reach across the table, and out of nowhere, you slap me as hard as you can, right across the face. And you say—“

This part is hard, but he knows he needs to do it. He needs to make Enjolras understand that there’s nothing wrong with wanting this, too.

“You say, ‘Shut up. There’s only one thing your mouth is any good for.’ And I know what you mean, so I slide to my knees, right where you want me, and I beg for permission to kiss your boots. You usually tease me for a while, ask if I think I really deserve it, and then you finally let me, and there’s no more fantasy after that, because, well.”

Enjolras’s pupils have blown wide, the blue of his eyes disappearing. And, Grantaire can see when he sneaks a naughty glance downward, he’s also gotten _very_ hard. “Oh,” he says, quietly.

“Want to hear another?”

“Please,” Enjolras says, his voice broken.

“There’s the one where you have me bent over the table, but not tied up. You expect me to hold the position no matter what you do to me, and you know I will, because all I want is to be good for you, no matter how much you hurt me. And you do. You _really_ do. You don’t give me a warm-up, or anything. You just start with a thick cane. It’s a big, thick piece of wood, and you bring it down on my ass and thighs, over and over again. It’s going to leave marks, maybe for weeks. And it _hurts._ You don’t give me a break, or anything, you just lay into me. You beat me until I can’t hold myself upright any longer, until I’m sobbing, and then you fuck me. That hurts, too, your hips pressing into the new bruises, and you don’t let me come. I don’t deserve to, because I jumped when the first blow landed, I wasn’t good and still for you while you were hurting me. You just leave me there, desperate and hurting, until you want to come back and use me again.”

“Fuck. Grantaire—“

And Grantaire understands now. Enjolras isn’t pushing him away because he doesn’t want him, doesn’t want this. He wants it so much it frightens him. All Grantaire has to do is make him understand that he wants it to. “I thought this was clear when we met, when I offered myself to you, but I see now we need to talk about it. So let me do that. I want you to own me, Enjolras. I want you to hurt me however you want to, and fuck me whenever you want to. I want to wear your collar, and I want you to tell me what else I’m allowed to wear, and I want to have to ask permission to sit on the furniture, and I want to kneel at your feet for hours. I want all of that. And I trust you to give it to me, and not to harm me, not ever. Can you trust yourself?”


	13. Chapter 13

Enjolras is quiet for a long, long time before he answers. When he finally does, there are tears in his eyes. “I don’t know, ‘Aire.”

Grantaire reaches for his hand, and Enjolras takes it at once, without hesitating. That, at least, makes Grantaire feel a little better. At least Enjolras still wants him close, even if he’s not sure what else he wants their relationship to look like. He tries to tell himself that’s proof that they’re going to figure it out together, except that they’ve already tried that, and it hasn’t worked. They’re both too drawn to the possibility of power exchange to pretend that it isn’t there, and if Enjolras isn’t willing to go there, Grantaire isn’t sure where that leaves them. He really doesn’t want the answer to be _nowhere,_ but he also isn’t sure he can give up the life he wants to have something with Enjolras.

Submission is who he is, with or without a Dom to share that with. Their relationship so far has already shown Grantaire that he can’t deny that forever. He would if he could, probably. He likes Enjolras enough (is falling in love with Enjolras fast enough, if he’s honest with whimsy, which has never been one of his talents, to be fair) that he would probably give up that entire side of himself if it meant they could be together.

But he also knows that it won’t work. It will _never_ work, especially now that he knows what Enjolras’s real reason for wanting to deny this connection between them is. They’ll just trip in and out of this pattern, where they both want the same thing, and Enjolras tries to deny it as long as he can, and then ultimately can’t bring himself to stick with his self-denial, and then feels guilty. They’ll make themselves miserable. Worse, they’ll make _each other_ miserable. They’d be better off saying goodbye right now than dragging this out into the nightmare it will be if they try to deny what they both want, what they’re both made for.

Grantaire swallows hard. This is a difficult conversation to have, between his natural inclination to defer to Enjolras and how little he wants to risk their fledgling relationship. But he knows it’s necessary, and he’d rather they end things on gone terms, knowing they were honest with each other, than try to make things work, knowing it’s likely doomed.

“Can we try, at least?” he asks. “We don’t have to jump right into the deep end together. We can start off with… with the other stuff, the stuff you think is okay. Work our way up, if we want to. And if it’s not working, if it’s not something you want, we can stop. But I think we have to at least give it a try, if we want this to work between us.”

He waits, holding his breath in frightened anticipation, for Enjolras’s response. He could say no, and a part of Grantaire is convinced that he will. That Enjolras’s fear of himself, and of his own desires, run deeper than his affection for Grantaire will.

After all, even barring the fact that Grantaire is not exactly a catch, Enjolras has had a lifetime of telling himself this tale of self-denial, and only a few weeks of knowing Grantaire. He hasn’t exactly had a chance to catch up.

And if Enjolras says no, if he tells Grantaire that he’s not willing to even try… then Grantaire is going to have to say, in return, that that probably marks the end of things between them. The mere thought threatens to overwhelm Grantaire with grief, but a part of him also knows that he’s capable of it. He can stand up for what, and who, he is.

Even if it costs him the man he’s already falling in love with.

But Enjolras doesn’t say no. He’s tentative, unusually so for him, but he says, “I… I can give it a try, at least. I’m really not sure we can make it work, and I don’t want you to think that’s any kind of reflection on you. But I’m afraid…”

“I can see that,” Grantaire says, trying to be teasing. It seems to fall flat, Enjolras’s full lips curving down into a frown.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop once I start. That I’ll end up doing something neither one of us really wants. I quite simply couldn’t live with myself if that happened, and yet…”

Grantaire manfully resists the urge to roll his eyes. For the first time, it makes sense that he and Enjolras are soulmates. Someone as absurdly self-sacrificing and noble as Enjolras needs a little Grantaire in his life to bring him back down to Earth. “Are you seriously saying you think you’re going to accidentally assault me?”

“I already have.”

Grantaire is incredibly confused for several seconds before realizing… “Are you referring to the _kiss_? That’s not an attack on my person, Enjolras, that’s a kiss. There’s a pretty big difference there.” He knows he shouldn’t be sarcastic, not when Enjolras is taking all of this so incredibly seriously, but also, he can’t help trying to get Enjolras to stop taking all of this so incredibly seriously. It can’t be healthy. He’s going to give himself an ulcer.

“I did not get your consent.”

“Uh, you absolutely did?” He’s a little hazy on the details, but, “Enjolras, I’m not trying to put too fine a point on it, but if I didn’t want you to kiss me, I’m pretty sure I could, like, snap you in half like a twig?” Enjolras is tall, but he’s skinny, and Grantaire, though his muscles are well-hidden by his stocky frame, does box four times a week.

“Not saying no is not the same as—“

“Okay, sure, you’d prefer to hold yourself to an affirmative consent standard, that’s fine. We can do that going forward! But I’m just saying, you got carried away, and maybe that’s not ideal, but it’s… it’s what people do, sometimes. You’ve got to be able to forgive yourself for that.”

Because if Enjolras can’t find a way to forgive himself for the crime of being human, then he’ll never be able to let himself have Grantaire, and, having experienced his dominance once, Grantaire is not going to happy if he has to do without it indefinitely. He’ll remember that kiss for the rest of his life.

“I can’t,” Enjolras says. “I can’t let myself carried away, not when you’re at stake. It would be unforgivable.”

Grantaire would forgive him, probably, but it couldn’t be more obvious that that’s not something Enjolras wants to hear.

“I don’t… I’m scared to even admit this, but… if you had told me to stop, ‘Aire, I honestly don’t know if I would have.”

“You would have,” Grantaire says, immediately, absolutely no doubt in his mind. How can Enjolras think something like that of himself? Of course Enjolras would never do anything to hurt him.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I trust you.” He has since the moment he first laid eyes on Enjolras, and no matter how they’ve hurt each other since, he still does. He has a lot of doubts about what’s happened between them, about what their future together holds, but still none at all that they were made for each other.

“I’m just not sure I deserve that.”

Grantaire’s heart is breaking for Enjolras. This wonderful man, this kind, thoughtful, powerful dominant, spending his entire life afraid that he was a monster. Slowly convincing himself that the moment he allowed himself any intimacy, he might snap and become what he most reviled. So much so that, when it was literally offered to him on a silver platter, he could not bring himself to accept what he wanted. What they both needed. “Will you do me a favor, then?”

“If I can,” Enjolras replies, a hint of suspicion in his voice. Grantiare smiles at that.

“I want us to try something. Just try. Because we’re at an impasse here, clearly! You think you’re not only capable of hurting me, of forcing me into something I don’t want to do, but that you’re _likely_ to do it. That the only way for me to be safe is for us both to deny ourselves what we really want. Is that a fair summary of your position?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says.

“And I think that’s honestly more than a little ridiculous, that you’d never do a thing to harm me, and that we could safely explore this together. That, in fact, we need to, if we’re both to be healthy and happy and make things work between the two of us. Two mutually contradictory points of view, I think you’ll find.”

“Unfortunately.” Enjolras is frowning again. He looks so serious and so handsome when he does that. Grantaire heroically manages to avoid letting himself be distracted by Enjolras’s perfect jawline, and instead makes his proposal.

“So, what do two people do when they are on opposite ends of an argument, and cannot come to a compromise? I suppose we could agree to disagree, but I don’t think we want to simply go our separate ways over this. I know I don’t.”

“No,” Enjolras breathes, and as difficult as this conversation has been, it is more than a little gratifying to see how much Enjolras _doesn’t_ want that, how the idea of no longer having anything between him and Grantaire obviously frightens him as much as it does Grantaire.

“So we do what anyone does when you don’t have enough information to make a decision. Research.” Grantaire is rather proud of how that sentence came out. He sounded so calm and normal. Not at all like he was laying his entire future happiness at the stake.

“Which would be…”

“We should try a scene. A small one! Nothing complicated! And we should figure out if, as I propose, we’re going to have a wonderful time, or if, as you worry, you’re going to do something to try to hurt me.”

To his surprise, Enjolras says, “Okay.”

Of course, it isn’t that easy. It takes several more hours of negotiation to end on a plan that they’re both okay with. At first, Enjolras tries to insist they call over another friend to essentially serve as a dungeon monitor, in case Grantaire needs help.

“I’ve humiliated myself in front of your friends enough,” Grantaire retorts, and then, more seriously, “Look, I get that our first time can’t be the perfectly romantic thing I always imagined. And that’s totally fine. We’re gonna work through this together. But I would like it to at least be just us.”

Enjolras softens at that, obviously convinced.

So, no supervision, thank goodness. Enjolras does insist on a scene where Grantaire isn’t restrained at all, as, again, he seems to be depending on the possibility that Grantaire can physically stop him if necessary. Grantaire is equally sure that it won’t come to that, but if it makes Enjolras feel any better, they can do that.

Enjolras also wants to establish a safe word and a safe gesture, though he also insists that if Grantaire starts to say no or resist at all, that will be taken as a safe word too. Grantaire is fine with that—consent play isn’t a big deal to him, and obviously that’s dangerous ground for Enjolras.

Enjolras won’t agree to sex or impact play either, which Grantaire isn’t so sure about—not because he wants those things so badly, although he does, but because he’s not sure that this is going to work if Enjolras is _still_ denying himself. “If we’re trying to test out your self-control, or whatever, don’t we need some temptation? You know, to make sure the system works, and everything.”

“It’s not a particular act, it’s…” Enjolras sighs, looking away. “When I first saw you there, on your knees in front of everyone, do you know how much I wanted to… It’s about _control._ I want to _own_ you. And I’m afraid once I start, I won’t be able to stop.”

Being owned by Enjolras sounds pretty fucking good to Grantaire, and he says as much.

“Are you _sure_?”

“I know what I want,” Grantaire says, firmly.

“And you promise you’ll stop me if you’re…”

“I promise. Believe me, Enjolras, if I tell you to stop and you don’t stop, I’ll punch you in the face, okay? And that is a guarantee from me to you.”

That gets him a smile. “Okay,” Enjolras says. “Okay, let’s give it a try.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No particular warnings this time! Hope y'all enjoy.

The planning is extensive and careful, of course. After all, this is an Enjolras scene. It’s bound to be.

Bound being, unfortunately, only a figure of speech, since Enjolras is categorically unwilling to do anything that will leave Grantaire unwilling to get up and walk away if he decides that’s what he wants. Not like Grantaire literally groveled on the floor, begging for this, on multiple occasions—Enjolras still wants to act like he’s not sure this is what _Grantaire_ wants.

But this is supposed to be an experiment, so he’ll try his best to be patient. That’s how he can be of service to Enjolras now. He can give his Dom the certainty that Enjolras has always needed and always lacked.

He can give Enjolras the gift of being able to trust himself with his own needs and his own desires. Something he can do with Grantaire, and has probably never been able to do before.

He’s pretty sure he can do that, anyways.

He’ll have to see how it goes, since tonight is the night.

Enjolras asks Grantaire to wear comfortable clothes, though nothing revealing. He carefully chooses the least-grubby of his workout pants, solid grey, no underwear, since he is a simple man and he knows what his assets are, and a tight white tank top that shows off the well-carved muscles from his boxing practice. Enjolras arrives at his apartment promptly at 7 P.M., just as scheduled.

“Hello,” Enjolras says.

It’s a minute before Grantaire can find his voice. Enjolras looks so incredibly gorgeous—he’s dressed all the way up, not down, in a perfectly cut deep red suit, a crisp white shirt unbuttoned to show his long, pale throat. The power differential between the two of them couldn’t be more obvious if Enjolras had told him to be naked, and Grantaire decides to privately appreciate that, even if Enjolras probably had practical concerns more on his mind. “Hi.”

Enjolras reaches out and gently touches his cheek. “It’s good to see you, R.”

There’s a lump in Grantaire’s throat. “It’s good to see you too. Then again, it’s always good to see you.” There we go. A dumb joke. That’ll get rid of all the tension.

Enjolras just cocks his head at him, confused.

Great, they’re off to a great start. “Um. Can I invite you in?”

“Please.”

Grantaire leads him into the apartment. “Ok. Um. What do you…”

“I want to do something. Before we start.” Enjolras fumbles a little bit with something in his pocket. “Here.” He takes out a small box from his pocket, and then opens it.

It’s a collar.

Not a simple play collar, either, the kind of generic toy that’s just for fun, not signifying anything. The box itself is beautiful velvet with white satin lining inside, and the collar is lovely red leather, clearly high-quality. It has a silver o-ring at the front and a clasp at the back, with room for lock though there isn’t one attached.

It’s not an engagement or marriage collar, since it’s not engraved or personalized, but it’s also, and obviously, significant.

“I…” Enjolras says, and then swallows. “I know you’ve put yourself out there a lot, for this. Us. For me. And I haven’t always been able to repay that. I want you to know, I do want this. I do want you. And I am really grateful to you for taking all of those chances for us, and… I wanted to give you something back. So. I guess this is my signal of that. As much as I can’t say whether or not I think we’re going to be able to figure out scenes or sex or anything in particular, I can say that I want you, even—especially—your submission. And I’d be honored if you would be willing to wear my collar.”

Grantaire isn’t sure what he’s feeling. And he doesn’t know what to say, except, “Yes.”

“Then, would you kneel for me, please?”

It’s not quite an order, but Grantaire knows it may take Enjolras some time to work his way up to the kind of confidence that Grantaire hopes he’ll one day have, what it would take to actually _put_ Grantaire on his knees. So instead Grantaire goes, willingly.

Enjolras reaches out for him, gently tracing the hollow of his throat with one finger. It’s a gesture so intimate that it takes Grantaire’s breath away—in all his life, no one has ever touched him like this before, not ever. And now Enjolras is carefully placing the collar around his neck, buckling it around the back, and all at once whatever fears Grantaire had about this disappear, because he knows, in his heart and soul, that this is where he’s always meant to be.

Enjolras is looking down at him, his eyes wide.

“Grantaire, I…” He swallows hard enough that Grantaire can see his Adam’s apple leap in his throat. “That’s very good,” he says, and then, “You’re very good.” It’s obvious that a dominant’s way of delivering praise doesn’t come naturally to Enjolras, but he’s trying, and that’s all Grantaire can ask of him. All Grantaire ever _has_ asked of him, even when that felt like far too much.

Enjolras reaches out for him then, just as they’d agreed, and places one gentle hand in Grantaire’s hair.

Grantaire can’t help himself. He leans into Enjolras’s touch, practically purring at how good it feels.

“Will—come on, then.”

Enjolras tugs gently at Grantaire’s hair, not nearly hard enough to hurt but definitely hard enough to make his presence known.

“Can I—“ Grantaire starts, the words sticking in his throat. He wants it, was surprised and thrilled that Enjolras had even agreed to it, but he doesn’t know if he can come right out and ask for it, like this, right at the beginning of a scene. It always seemed so easy in theory, when he imagined he’d be overwhelmed by a dominant’s touch, pushed right where he was supposed to go, but it’s not like that with Enjolras.

But Enjolras doesn’t make him beg. “Yes,” he says. “You can crawl for me.”

Swallowing hard against the collar, Grantaire does as he’s told. He thinks he can feel Enjolras’s eyes on his back, hot and intense, watching him crawl where Enjolras wants him. He wonders if Enjolras is actually staring at him,or if it’s just in Grantiare’s mind, but he doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to. He wants it to stay just like this between them, this warm, secret longing, still not able to be expressed in words even now that they’ve acknowledged their bond and given in to their mutual desire. He doesn’t need to look to feel the heat coming from Enjolras, the burning desire that he feels.

And all for Grantaire. It still seems much too good to be true.

Enjolras guides him to a spot right next to his surprisingly grungy couch (Grantaire would perhaps have expected everything Enjolras owned to be as rigidly perfect as the man himself), and lets him kneel there.

He doesn’t do much. Just pets his fingers through Grantaire’s hair. When Grantaire shifts a little, though,uncomfortable on his knees, Enjolras murmurs, gently but firmly,“Stay still. I’ve got you right where I want you.”

Those words settle and calm him, making it easy for him to do as Enjolras asks. Enjolras just keeps petting his hair, and then starting to dip lower, stroking his fingertips along Grantaire’s neck, brushing the collar.

When Enjolras had first suggested this, Grantaire hadn’t been sure it would work. He’d been certain that so little stimulation wouldn’t get him into any kind of subspace, and he had been worried about whether or not he’d be able to stand what would certainly feel embarrassing—obeying each of Enjolras’s orders consciously, without the help of a submissive state to clear out any of the shame that he feels at needing this control so badly.

He’d agreed to it nonetheless, because, first of all, what kind of idiot would turn down the chance to kneel obediently at Enjolras’s feet for an extended period of time, and secondly, he knows that Enjolras needs to feel things out before he can let himself let go and actually dominate Grantaire the way both of them want and need. If that means Grantaire has to white-knuckle his way through some awkwardness while waiting for Enjolras to build his confidence in himself up, he’s happy to do it, but he’d thought that was all it would be.

But, slowly but surely, he’s slipping under. It’s not the kind of overwhelming rush of subspace he’d experienced when he and Enjolras were kissing and Enjolras got carried away. It doesn’t pull him under and away from himself so quickly that he loses his footing and gives way. He could still _make_ himself disobey Enjolras, if he wanted to, could get up from his knees and walk away, unlike the physical force Enjolras’s orders would have on him if he were all the way under.

It’s just that he doesn’t want to.

Here, on his knees in front of the man he loves, everything feels slow and peaceful and easy. He could gladly stay here for the rest of his life, waiting for Enjolras to ask something of him, or just soaking up the blissful warmth of his attention and his affection. It doesn’t need to be anything more than this, Enjolras’s hands in Grantaire’s hair, Enjolras’s collar around his throat, Grantaire on his knees, where he belongs. Where he has always belonged.

Grantaire could be happy forever if this was all that they coulddo, all that Enjolras could ever trust himself with. As long as they can connect in this way, as long as his submission is welcomed and treasured, however little use Enjolras intends to make of it, then Grantaire can content himself with that.

But, as he basks in Enjolras’s touch and the soothed, content emotions coming from his dominant, he suspects that he won’t have to. In fact, he thinks that this may be just the beginning.

Enjolras starts to give him little orders after a while. To adjust his position, to breathe more slowly, to close his eyes. Obeying is easy. The easiest thing in the world. It’s like falling, except how it’s like flying, and he knows that doesn’t make any sense but nothing needs to make sense now, nothing except for being Enjolras’s.

He doesn’t know how long it goes on before Enjolras gives him the order, “Open your eyes for me.”

He does. Of course he does.

“Up on the couch. Come on.”

Grantaire does as he’s told. It’s a tiny couch, and he’s practically sprawled on Enjolras’s lap as he settles in. Somehow, neither one of them minds that too much.

“How are you doing?”

“Great, sir,” Grantaire says, his voice only slightly slurred with subspace.

“Me too.” Enjolras presses a kiss to his temple. “You can stay right here as long as you want, okay?”

“Okay. Love you.”

There is a pause, and Grantaire hears Enjolras draw in a breath. Under any other circumstances, he would be anxious at that,but right now, he feels incapable of worry or anything even close to it. After a moment, Enjolras answers. “I love you too, Grantaire.”


End file.
